


Arya Stark and the Night King

by Smediterranea



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, F/M, Family Feels, Friendship, Healing, Hufflepuff Friends 4Ever, Slow Burn, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 63,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smediterranea/pseuds/Smediterranea
Summary: The Night King has returned. Magic isn’t for fun any more. It is a weapon, one weapon that dark wizards would not hesitate to use against her or the ones she loved. Jon is in danger — her whole family is in danger by association — and Arya needs to protect herself and protect them.Arya Stark has never backed down from a challenge. She isn’t about to start now.An AU Game of Thrones fic: Arya Stark is a young witch at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The Wizarding world is under threat - Arya will have to grow up fast if she wants to survive.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 102
Kudos: 175





	1. Arya Stark and the Goblet of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Started working on this fic many months ago and thought it was going to remain as a WIP forever... but now that we're all stuck inside, I had some extra time to revisit it.
> 
> This fic is going to be darker than the Harry Potter world, but maybe not quite as dark as Game of Thrones... still plenty of angst to go around. But I can't resist a good friendship slow burn in there ;)
> 
> Ratings will likely go up for the later chapters. Stay tuned!

Arya Stark has waited eleven years, seven months, and twenty-five days to board the Hogwarts Express. It’s finally September 1st, her very first trip to Hogwarts.

Arya waits for the rest of her large family to pass through the barrier of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, hanging back. She wants this moment to be special, just for her.

“Are you ready, Arya?”

She looks up at the smiling face of her father, Ned Stark. He places a warm hand between her shoulder blades. The edge of panic that has been tinging her excitement fades away. She nods.

The gleaming Hogwarts Express puffs white steam as the crowds bustle about. Arya gives her father a tight hug, and half-heartedly promises her mother that she’ll behave before jumping onto the train. As the train pulls away from the station, she waves to her brothers, Bran and Rickon, who are running after them through the haze.

Arya tucks herself in the corner of a compartment with her cousin, Jon Snow. His face is reflected in the windowpane as the countryside passes by, and Arya can see the thin, lightning bolt-shaped scar that arcs down his forehead. This scar has made Jon one of the most famous wizards in the world, but all Arya can see is her favorite cousin.

Jon had come to live with her family after his own parents had been murdered by a dark wizard known as the Night King. In an attempt to kill Jon — only a baby then — the Night King had been harmed by his own rebounding curse. The Night King had disappeared — most presumed him dead — while Jon had been marred by the thin scar.

Arya loved her cousin as much as any of her siblings — more even, since Jon was usually nice to her. He was the same age as her brother Robb; both were fourth years in Gryffindor House. As Arya and Jon watched the countryside pass by, two more fourth-year Gryffindor students joined them: Ygritte and Sam, Jon’s best friends. Ygritte was a muggle-born witch with six older, muggle brothers, each with matching flame-red hair. She was bold and brash, the fearless keeper of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Sam, on the other hand, came from a long line of pureblood wizards and witches, and, upon first meeting, seemed far too meek to be a Gryffindor. He was bookish and shy, but he had stood up for Jon many times. No small feat given how often trouble seemed to find Jon.

Arya was happy enough lurking in the corner of their compartment when her sister, Sansa, poked her head in. The blue accents on her Ravenclaw robes made her eyes shine even more brightly, although they narrowed when they spotted Arya.

“Really, Arya! You ought to be making friends with the other first years.” 

A second year, Sansa had annoyed Arya to no end all summer by prattling on about everything she knew about Hogwarts that Arya was not yet privy to. Arya had settled for throwing food at her when their mother’s back was turned.

“I’m fine here,” Arya says, shrinking further into the corner.

Jon smiles kindly at her.

“Sansa has a point, Arya. We’re happy to have you here,” he hastened to add, seeing her darkening expression. “But you’ll want to meet some of the other first years. It’s always good to meet new people before they’re Sorted. It’s useful to have friends in other houses.”

“All your friends are Gryffindor,” she points out.

“Aye,” Ygritte says. “And now he’s stuck with the lot of us.”

Arya huffed, and shoved her way past Sansa, head held high. She stomped towards the closest compartment she could find with students who looked as small as her. A difficult feat, considering how short and scrawny she was, but they looked a little frightened, so she assumed they were first years, too.

“Who’re you?” asks a timid boy.

“Arya Stark. First year. And you?”

“Mycah Butcher. Also a first year. And this is Lommy, and Shireen, and Hot Pie.”

“Hot Pie?”

“Figured someone’s going to give me a nickname soon enough,” says the pudgy boy working his way through a pile of sweets. “Might as well lean into it.” He holds out a slightly sticky hand for her to shake.

When Sansa passes by before the train stops, she smiles. Arya makes a grotesque face back and Sansa flounces off.

 _Good_ , Arya thinks. _Now let’s get this Sorting business out of the way._

—

The Sorting Hat isn’t quite what she expected. Her siblings had all kept quiet about how the sorting worked, but Arya wasn’t deterred by their silence. Although she certainly wasn’t as bookish as Bran or Sansa, she did at least have the determination to find the answers she sought. A large tome of _Hogwarts, A History_ from her father’s study had easily answered this question, but she hadn’t expected the hat to be so tattered and frayed. Still, she could hardly keep from jumping every time a new name was called, waiting for her own. She watches as Shireen is sent to join the Ravenclaw table, Mycah to Gryffindor, Lommy to Slytherin, and Hot Pie to Hufflepuff. She smirks, thinking about Jon’s advice to find friends in different houses.

“Arya Stark!”

She hurtles up the steps and jams the hat onto her head. She waits for the loud cry of “Gryffindor!” but there is only silence.

 _So it’s Gryffindor you want, eh?_ There is a voice in her head that is certainly not her own. _Hogwarts, A History_ had not prepared her for this.

 _Er… yes?_ she thinks, wondering if she was allowed to make requests.

 _You could do well there,_ the voice says. _Very well. But you’re ambitious, too… you could be happy in —_

_Not Slytherin!_ she thinks with all her might.

 _Well, I suppose there’s ambitious, and then there’s stubborn. You might just be the latter…_ the voice continues. _I see great loyalty in you. And an appreciation for hard work… yes, you like to do things yourself, don’t you? Very protective of those you care about… Hufflepuff would do well with you…_

Arya feels her stomach somersault. She had not considered Hufflepuff. Certainly it wouldn’t be as shameful as Slytherin, but she had hoped that she could at least make one of her parents happy with Gryffindor like her father or, much less likely, Ravenclaw like her mother. She saw the appeal of Hufflepuff, but…

 _Why can’t I be in Gryffindor?_ she asks. 

_But intentions always matter in these things,_ the hat continues, ignoring her. _You’d make a good Hufflepuff, but only because of who you are at the core. Better make it…_

“GRYFFINDOR!” roared the hat, and the hall burst into cheers.

Arya, relieved and a little shaken, is engulfed in Jon’s arms, Robb ruffling her hair.

“I knew it!” Robb cries good-naturedly. “Sansa owes me a Galleon. She thought you’d be Slytherin.”

Arya turns to the Ravenclaw table and sticks her tongue out at her sister. Sansa sits up straighter and turned up her nose.

The feast begins in earnest once the last student is sorted, and Arya tucks into a meal unlike one she’s ever had. She had always eaten well at Stark Manor, of course, but here there seemed to be limitless choices, and the din was even more deafening than she was used to. After she has eaten her fill, she watches as the great Jeor Mormont, Hogwarts Headmaster, rises to make his announcements.

“I am sorry to say that the inter-house Quidditch championship will be canceled this year.”

There is an uproar around the room. Robb lets out an indignant squawk of protest, while Jon and Ygritte both throw up their hands. Arya sees that the other houses look equally unhappy with this news; a burly boy at Hufflepuff clenches his fists so hard his knuckles whiten, and a tall Slytherin girl covers her face with her hands. Arya isn’t a fan of this development either; she had smuggled in her own broom in the hopes that she could perhaps impress enough to make the squad. An unlikely event, given that first years were usually not allowed to join the Quidditch team, but Jon had gotten an exception, so why not her, too?

“Instead, Hogwarts will be hosting the Triwizard Tournament!” 

There are some murmurings of excitement as Headmaster Mormont explains the details of the tournament, but Arya feels downhearted. She’s far too young to compete, and even if the tasks are exciting, how could they possibly compare to the thrill of Quidditch?

Still, as Arya stumbles up the stairs from the Gryffindor common room to the girls’ dormitories, she can’t help but feel happy that she is finally at Hogwarts. A nagging feeling tugs at her, and she ponders whether it mattered that the hat had hesitated to put her in Gryffindor. Had it hesitated putting Jon there, or Robb? What about her father? 

Perhaps it doesn’t matter in the end — she was here to learn magic, after all. What was the allegiance of a house compared to the power of magic?

—

Arya’s first two weeks pass in a blur. She and Mycah are inseparable. Together they navigate the complicated castle, learn the names of all their fellow first years and professors, and spend their evenings poring over their textbooks. 

He favorite class is Transfiguration. Professor Forel insists they call him Syrio, and he waves his wand with such grace and elegance that he appears to perform an intricate dance each lesson. On their first day, he reveals his Animagus form — a beautiful, sharp-eyed hawk — and Arya vows that someday she will become an Animagus, too.

Arya quickly falls asleep each night, her mind swirling with all the new information she crams in every day. It’s becoming a bit too much, so she goes flying to clear her head. Besides, Mycah has been dying to play Exploding Snap all week, and Arya would rather not get her eyebrows singed off.

Learning to get around the castle comes in handy, as she has to be careful with her broom. Even though there is no Quidditch to try out for, she’s still not sure it’s allowed for her to go flying. She doesn’t want to get a Howler from her mother so early in the year.

By the time she makes it to the Quidditch pitch, she’s disappointed to find someone already there. It’s the burly boy from Hufflepuff, holding a bat in his left hand and a wand in his right. He’s much taller than she had assumed; she guesses he might be a fourth year, like Robb and Jon, but he’s much broader than both of them.

As if sensing her eyes on him, he turns and gives a little jump of surprise. They stare at each other warily before he speaks.

“You’re a first year, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she says, with a hint of warning in her voice.

“Are you allowed to be flying?”

“Are you going to tell on me?”

The boy gives her a long look.

“No,” he says, and he turns back to the pitch. With a flick of his wand, a ball zooms towards him. He swings the bat hard with his left hand and with a loud _CRACK_ , the ball sails towards the opposite end of the pitch.

“You should try to hit me.”

“ _What?_ ” The boy whirls around, staring at her.

“With the ball. As I fly around” she says, feeling her face go pink with embarrassment. She swallows it down and starts again with more confidence.

“I bet you _can’t_ hit me.”

Arya has spent enough time with teenage boys to know exactly how to goad them into doing her bidding. The boy falls for her bait.

“You’re on.”

Arya wastes no time, mounting her broom and kicking off hard. She zooms away from the boy as she hears another loud _CRACK_ ring out, a ball whizzing past her head. He’s mounted his broom, too, and speeds after her as she twists and turns away.

Half an hour passes, and Arya is breathless with exhaustion and exhilaration. She’s played Quidditch countless times with Jon and her brothers, but it was rare that they pursued her very hard, preferring to scuffle among themselves. But this Hufflepuff boy follows her with dogged purpose, and he does not relent for a moment. He fires ball after ball towards her. One almost catches her on the shoulder and she slides so far left on her broom that she has to tuck into a barrel roll before she can come to a stop just a few feet from the ground.

The boy zooms downwards and alights from his own broom close to her.

“Why’d you stop?” she pants, a little frustrated. “I’m fine!”

The boy smiles up at her.

“You might be, but my arm is getting tired. I don’t want to get myself injured.”

Arya reluctantly lands next to him, and he sticks out his hand.

“Gendry Waters,” he says, his hand engulfing hers.

“Arya Stark.”

The boy smiles, and Arya prepares for the comments about her last name — she’s never managed to introduce herself without someone asking about her older siblings or her famous cousin. But Gendry surprises her.

“You’re really good. D’you want to practice together on Monday?”

Arya feels something warm settle in her chest, a grin stretching her face.

“Eager to lose again?”

Gendry laughs, and the warmth in Arya’s chest seems to spread all over her body. She’s glad her face is already red from exertion.

“I’ll get you next time, Stark.”

“My friends call me ‘Arry,” she says. It’s a lie — no one calls her that — but she hopes, like Hot Pie and his weird choice of name, it will catch on. Gendry seems unfazed.

“Alright, ‘Arry.”

They turn back towards the castle, hoisting their brooms over their shoulders. Gendry tucks the practice Bludger under his arm.

“How come you hold your wand in your right hand, but your bat in your left?” she asks. “Most people use the same hand for both.”

“Oh,” Gendry says, flushing a little. “Well, I’m left-handed… or I’m supposed to be anyway.”

“Supposed to be?”

“Yeah, I — I grew up in an orphanage.” He’s speaking rather quickly, as if he wants to prevent her from asking more questions. “My mum was a muggle, and she died when I was little. I got sent to an orphanage. It was run by some nuns, and they were pretty old-fashioned… they don’t like it when you’re left-handed, see? So they always made me use my right, so that’s how I hold my quills and my wand. Besides, most wandwork in books shows the right hand, so it’s useful that way… but I’ve got more power in the left, so I swing with that.”

They climb the steps as Arya ponders this.

“D’you think you could use your wand in your left hand?”

“Maybe. Never really tried it.”

“You should. It could be useful.”

“Useful how?”

“In a fight, I guess.”

Gendry looks down at her, brows raised.

“Who would I be fighting?”

“There’s always people trying to fight,” she says, shrugging. “Better to be prepared.”

Gendry gives her a bemused smirk as they reach a juncture in the corridor.

“I’m going down here,” he says. “I’ll see you on Monday?”

“Yeah, Monday.” 

Gendry lifts his hand in goodbye and retreats towards the direction that she assumes leads to the Hufflepuff common room. Arya turns to climb the stairs towards Gryffindor tower.

She manages to get her broom back in her dormitory without anyone’s notice. She spends the rest of the weekend waiting eagerly for Monday afternoon.

—

The students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons arrive with much fanfare, but Arya only cares about one student in particular.

She hadn’t realized Khal Drogo, the seeker on the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team, was still a student. She had known he was young — she had avidly followed all of his matches in that summer’s World Cup, and had tried out several of his moves in her practices with Gendry already. Drogo flew with an ease and grace Arya envied, although she did find the awkward way he mounted his broom funny. It was like he was getting on a horse. Still, seeing him on the ground is just as exciting as seeing him in the air. He swaggers about the castle, long braided hair flowing down his back, sooting murderous looks at anyone who tried to approach him for an autograph.

Arya is less enthused by the Beauxbatons students. Most of them were fine, but it was Daenerys Targaryen who drew Arya’s ire. A stunning woman with silver-blonde hair and eyes so blue, they were almost purple, she could hardly walk down a hallway without all of the boys present tripping over themselves to look at her. Arya couldn’t see the appeal. Daenerys was obviously beautiful, but she constantly complained of the cold, of the dark, of almost everything at Hogwarts. The only thing she hadn’t found fault in was Khal Drogo, whom she seemed to seek out, much to the dismay of every other male student.

Hours before the Halloween selection of the champions, Arya spends the afternoon in front of the Goblet of Fire, watching as participants entered their names. There are a few comical interludes. Students who had try to trick the age limit are forcefully expelled backwards, their long robes lifted over their heads. Arya is perusing her Transfiguration textbook when Gendry comes to sit next to her.

They never really interacted outside of their Quidditch practices, but they would nod to each other in the halls as they passed. All of Arya’s family were curious as to how she knew Gendry, but Arya found it fun to leave them in suspense. Even now, as Sansa spots Gendry and Arya from across the room, she frowns. Arya scowls back.

Gendry, oblivious to the sister rivalry, stares at the blue flames of the cup. Arya turns her focus back to him.

“Would you enter, if you could?”

“For a thousand Galleons?” he says, turning to face her. “‘Course I would. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. But I wouldn’t just do it for the gold. It would be worth it to wipe that smug look off her face,” she says, nodding towards Daenerys, who is sweeping into the room.

To Arya’s dismay, Gendry does not seem to have heard her. He is staring at Daenerys with the same dazed look as the rest of the boys. As Daenerys places her name in the Goblet of Fire, several male students applaud loudly, or declare that they will support her over all other champions. Daenerys smiles tightly at them, and glides off down the hall, several of the more adoring boys tumbling after her. 

Arya frowns as Gendry violently shakes his head, as if warding off a particularly pesky insect. He catches Arya’s eye and flushes scarlet.

“I suppose you would support Daenerys if she were selected as a Champion, wouldn’t you?” she says cooly, ignoring Gendry’s scowl.

“Of course not. I don’t… I didn’t… What’s _wrong_ with her?”

Arya blinks at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Every time she walks by, I… I dunno, it’s like I can’t think properly or something. I don’t get it.”

Arya watches as Gendry nervously cracks his knuckles, staring at his feet.

“It’s not just you,” she says quietly. “All the boys get distracted.”

Gendry looks at her, the furrow in his brow softening.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Whatever it is about her… it’s not just you.”

“Oh.” 

He seems reassured by this, and slumps back. They sit for a long moment, watching as Khal Drogo and the other Durmstrang students submit their names.

“You would win,” Gendry says after a while.

“I’m a first year, Gendry. I don’t even know how to transfigure a teacup.”

Gendry shrugs.

“You’re full of surprises.”

Arya smiles, and they head down towards the Halloween feast.

—

It’s another unforgettable feast, although the food is secondary to the excitement in the air. There’s rather a lot of betting going on as to who will be selected as Hogwarts Champion. Theon Greyjoy, Robb’s best friend and fellow fourth-year Gryffindor, has a large roll of parchment in front of him and is taking bets from members of all houses.

When the noise dies away, the Goblet lights up with bright red flames and the first name is called.

“Khal Drogo!”

Arya joins in the enthusiastic applause. She hopes one of the tasks involves flying; she’d love to see more of his moves in person.

The next name is “Daenerys Targaryen!” and Arya’s little groan of disappointment is drowned out by the loud applause — even her stupid brother and his friends seem smitten with her. She looks over at the Hufflepuff table. Gendry is pointedly staring at his fork, muttering something under his breath.

Daenerys leaves the hall, and silence descends as Hogwarts waits to hear the name of its champion. Headmaster Mormont’s long fingers unfurl the parchment.

“Renly Baratheon!”

A roar erupts from the Hufflepuff table. Arya cranes her head to get a good look. She doesn’t know many of the seventh years, but she had heard a bit about Renly from Jon and Robb when they discussed Quidditch. He was a good flier, and a prefect, but Arya had heard grumblings that he was just a “pretty boy.” Now that she gets a good look at him, Renly Baratheon is quite handsome — bright blue eyes and a friendly smile — although it was hard to look much closer with the mob of students around him. Renly untangles himself from the strong hug of another boy — Loras Tyrell, if Arya remembered correctly — and exits the hall.

The rumbling dies down as Headmaster Mormont raises his arms, speaking to dismiss them, when the Goblet glows red again, another parchment floating above it.

The hall falls deathly silent. Curiosity wars with anxiety in Arya’s chest; she does not much like the crease of worry on Headmaster Mormont’s face as he read the name.

“Jon Snow.”

The whole hall, Arya included, turns to look at her cousin. His face is white with shock, his thin scar standing out all the more against his pale skin. Heart pounding, she watches as Jon is half-shoved to his feet and shakily makes his way out of the hall. 

The moment they are released and instructed to return to their dormitories, all hell breaks loose.

“How d’you think he did it?”

“He must’ve used an age-up potion.”

“Don’t be stupid. We saw five people try those, none worked.”

“Well, maybe he had a more powerful one.”

“Yeah, like _two_ age-up potions.”

“That would never work. Mormont must’ve been in on it. You know — try to double the number of champions for Hogwarts.”

“Come off it, Mormont wouldn’t help him cheat.”

Arya ignores all of them and heads straight to the common room. She speaks to no one, waiting for Jon’s return. She knows her cousin, and she knows that strange things always happen when Jon is around. If he hadn’t put his name in — and the shock on his face seemed to imply he hadn’t — someone else had, and that could only mean trouble.

Arya has a sinking feeling that her first year isn’t going to go as smoothly as planned.

—

As usual, she meets Gendry out on the Quidditch pitch. Normally, he’s already flying, or at least practicing summoning the fake Bludger towards him at varying speeds. But today he’s on the ground, waiting for her.

“How did he do it?” Gendry demands.

Arya had been expecting this. In the days after Halloween, an ugly grudge had developed between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff House. Sansa had tried to calm Jon down about this by explaining that Hufflepuff House rarely got any glory, so it was natural they were upset that their Champion’s moment was being stolen away from them. Arya had gotten so annoyed that she had stormed off. Sansa was right, of course, but that never mattered much to Arya.

Still, it stings that Gendry is looking at her with such suspicion, as if Arya herself had managed to bamboozle the Goblet of Fire.

“He didn’t,” she says flatly, mounting her broom. “Someone else put his name in, probably to try to get him hurt. Jon would never try to cheat his way into the tournament.”

Gendry makes no effort to move. Arya rises a few inches above his head.

“What are you doing? Get on your broom, stupid. Let’s fly.”

“If you don’t want to tell me, fine. But I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” She lands back on the ground, frowning up at him. “But Jon didn’t do it.”

Gendry says nothing, frowning at her.

“Fine!” she shouts, her temper rising. “Don’t believe me. But we’re done practicing together.”

“Fine by me,” grunts Gendry, and he turns back to the pitch, mounts his broom, and kicks off. 

Arya fumes all the way back up to Gryffindor tower. She doesn’t need stupid Gendry to believe her. Who needs friends like him anyway?

She can see a small figure flying around the Quidditch pitch in the distance. She wishes she knew more hexes so she could knock him off his broom from this distance. 

—

Dragons. Jon had stolen an egg from a _dragon_.

Arya had doubted that the tasks would be more exciting than Quidditch, but that had certainly been proven false. It had been thrilling to watch: Drogo had barely escaped being trampled, and Renly had gotten a bad burn, but Daenerys had charmed the dragon as effortlessly as she had every boy in the castle. She had even stroked the dragon’s smoking snout before collecting the egg. Even Arya had to admit she was impressed, and had jokingly started calling her the Dragon Queen. Daenerys had overheard Arya telling Sansa this nickname in the hall and had smiled at her — a real smile this time — and for a brief moment Arya could see what all those stupid boys saw in her.

Jon had done brilliantly despite being three years younger than his competitors. He had summoned his Firebolt and zoomed around the dragon before diving in for the egg. Jon had later told Arya that Drogo admitted he had been impressed; Arya could hardly contain her envy. She was elated that Jon had done well, but there was a tight feeling in her stomach every time she thought about the next task. 

Someone had it out for her cousin, and there was little she could do to protect him.

She was doing well in her classes. She liked Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts best, and Charms was alright, too. Still, she wasn’t even twelve yet, and she could barely hex someone hard enough to trip them up. She wasn’t exactly prepared to defend her cousin against dark wizards.

To take her mind off of things, she goes down to practice Quidditch when she can. She tries her best to avoid Gendry, but one evening as she mounts her broom, she hears a cough behind her. She whirls around, wand out, to face Gendry, who raises his hands in surrender.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Arya stows her wand. She wouldn’t have been able to hex Gendry properly anyway, but she appreciated that he had acted threatened by her. Still, that didn’t mean she wanted to talk to him.

“I’m sorry,” he tries again. “I should have believed you. Someone… someone has it out for your cousin.”

Arya glowers at him.

“Can we practice together again?”

Arya kicks off the ground, hovering eye level with Gendry.

“I bet you still can’t hit me.”

Gendry smiles.

—

The advantage — and disadvantage — of being a first year is being left out of things by older students. 

Arya was very glad she didn’t have to worry about the drama of the Yule Ball, and happily spent Christmas at home with her parents, Bran, and Rickon. Sansa had managed to stay at Hogwarts thanks to an invitation to the ball from Theon Greyjoy. Robb had caused a stir by first promising to attend with Emily Frey but then changing his mind to Talisa Westerling. Poor Jon was required to attend as one of the champions. He had asked his friend Ygritte to go with him, and had blushed as red as Ygritte’s hair when he did.

Arya was less enthused to be left out of Jon’s preparations for his Triwizard tasks. She knew that she wasn’t exactly in a position of knowledge or authority to help him, and champions were supposed to work out the clues by themselves. But Arya was worried for her cousin. Watching him dive into the lake for an hour had been a nerve-wracking experience. He had come out well, though, and between his first two tasks, he was tied for first place with Renly Baratheon, who had excelled in the second task. This had healed some wounds between the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs; most Hogwarts students agreed that as long as one of their champions lifted the cup in the end, all would be fine.

Arya had been deeply disappointed to learn that the third task would take place on the Quidditch grounds, and that all flying was banned as a large hedge maze inched higher throughout spring. She hadn’t flown with Gendry in weeks, and as much fun as she had with Mycah, Hot Pie, Lommy, and Shireen, none of them really liked flying or even discussing Quidditch very much. Still, she went out to the pitch every so often out of habit. She liked to climb high into the stands and feel the wind whipping about her face, imagining colorful scenarios where she led Gryffindor to victory. 

It is during one of these visits that she sees Gendry having a heated conversation with a man she vaguely recognizes as one of the Triwizard judges. Like Gendry, the man is tall and broad, with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes. He had large arms and wide shoulders, which must have once been strong and muscular but had now gone to seed. The man’s large belly protruded from under his canary yellow robes, and his nose had been purpled by years of drinking. Arya thinks unkindly that this man looked like a worst-case scenario for Gendry as he aged.

The man notices Arya’s approach first, and claps Gendry hard on the shoulder. 

“Well, lad, I best be off,” says the man in a booming, falsely cheery voice. “Pleasure seeing you. Don’t hesitate to write and all that.”

Gendry whips around to look at Arya, and the man behind him slinks away with surprising speed.

“Who was that?” she asks, climbing the last few steps to Gendry.

He frowns, looking in the direction where the man had vanished.

“My father.”

Arya blinks up at him, watching him grind his jaw.

“Thought you said you grew up in an orphanage?”

“I did. I never met him before. He… he spotted me during the last task, and I guess he asked around. He knew my mother once, but… he didn’t know about me.”

“Oh.” Arya isn’t quite sure what to say to this. She supposes most people would be glad to meet their long-last fathers, but Gendry’s jaw is still tightly clenched.

“His name’s Robert Baratheon,” he says finally, looking down at her.

“Baratheon… like Renly Baratheon? And Shireen Baratheon?”

“Robert’s their uncle. Renly and Shireen are cousins. It’s… a complicated family tree I guess.”

“So Renly and Shireen are your cousins, too?”

“I guess,” shrugs Gendry. He turns to go back to the castle and Arya, suddenly not wanting to be left alone in the cold stadium, follows. After a while, she musters the courage to speak again.

“Are you… happy? To have a father, I mean?”

Gendry laughs darkly. Arya shivers, unsettled by the sound.

“He’s not my father, not really. He only wanted to make sure no one else knew. Seemed to think someone was going to use me to blackmail him or something.”

“Blackmail? Why?”

“No idea. I guess he was a big Quidditch player back in the day. He was a beater, too.” Gendry’s face twists, clearly displeased at the parallels between himself and Robert. He shakes his head and continues. “But that was a long time ago. The way his robes look… well, I’m pretty good at spotting someone who’s trying to pretend they have money when they’re down on their luck. Can’t imagine what someone would want from him and I told him as much.”

“So that’s it? That’s all he cared about — whether you were going to be used against him?”

“Yeah,” says Gendry, an ugly anger creasing his face. “Didn’t even ask me about myself. Didn’t give a damn about me, but I guess I should be used to that.”

Arya falls silent, unsure of what to say. Gendry’s shoulders slump and he sighs.

“Wish the Quidditch pitch wasn’t closed,” he says morosely. “I could really do with hitting something right now.”

“Go get your bat. I’ll throw rocks at you and you can hit them away.”

Gendry laughs a little, sounding more like himself.

“That’s your solution to cheer me up — throw rocks at me?”

Arya shrugs, her face going a bit pink, but Gendry gives her a real smile. 

“Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Arya sets out to find the biggest rock she can throw.

—

Arya’s day had started well. She had finished her exams, and had spent the warm afternoon by the lake with her friends. Her anxiety about Jon’s performance in the third task that evening mounted higher and higher, but she felt some security that it would be over soon, and that Jon had survived unharmed thus far.

Arya and her friends had crowded into the stands of the quidditch pitch to wait with baited breath as the champions dove into the maze in search of the Triwizard Cup. The occasional shout and loud bangs could be heard as the champions battled their way through. Arya tightly crossed her fingers, shaking a little as the large board tracking Jon’s progress showed him racing towards the middle. A small yellow dot showing Renly Baratheon was equally close, and the spectators gasped as they met in the center and then, suddenly, disappeared from view.

“Who won?” Mycah asks, peering over Arya’s head to look.

“They’re gone!” Hot Pie shouts. “They’ve Disapparated!”

“You can’t Disapparate within the Hogwarts grounds,” Shireen says patiently, although she was frowning. “Maybe there’s a problem with the score board…”

“But Drogo and Daenerys are still there,” Lommy says, pointing at the black and blue dots. “But Drogo hasn’t moved in ages… oh, look! Daenerys is about to turn the corner and run into him.”

Daenerys’s scream echoes through the grounds. 

The professors patrolling the edge of the maze lunge into action. The confused crowd grows loud with shouts of panic. They quiet as a trembling Daenerys and a prone Drogo are dragged from the maze.

“He… he was just lying there,” Daenerys’s sobs can be heard through the silent stadium.

“He’s been Stunned,” says Professor Tarth, a towering blonde woman with a stern expression.

“Stunned!” cries the tiny potions master, Professor Lannister. “But only a wizard can Stun…”

“Someone’s attacked him!” Daenerys continues to sob. “Where are the others? Have they been attacked as well?”

Panic sweeps again through the crowd. The professors turn and begin to blast away the shrubs of the maze, making a path to the center where the Triwizard Cup had been placed. An empty pedestal stands before them, and there is a dark stain of blood on the ground.

Arya is on the verge of vomiting. _Where is Jon?_

Before anyone can move, a bright light flashes and Jon appears flat on his back, clutching the Triwizard cup in one hand and Renly Baratheon’s arm in the other. Jon struggles to his feet — his leg looks injured — but Renly stays motionless on the ground.

Professor Tarth lets out a scream of horror, and chaos explodes in the stands.

Renly Baratheon is dead.

Arya is frozen in her seat. She and her friends huddle together, eyes wide and frightened, as they watch the terrible scene before them. Loras Tyrell has pushed his way to Renly, trying to shake him back to life. He lets out the most horrible cry of anguish Arya has ever heard — a sound of of pain she can never forget — and throws himself over Renly’s body. Loras’s twin sister, Margaery, stands over her brother, the Slytherin green of her robes highlighting the fury in her flashing green eyes. Drogo, now revived, is holding a trembling Daenerys in his arms. He stares down at Renly in horror, disbelieving. 

Arya swivels to look at her fellow Hogwarts students. Many are openly weeping. Robb is stroking Sansa’s hair as she clings to him, her face pale and afraid. Theon sits next to them, looking stricken. Arya glances further down and sees Gendry’s face is white with shock, as were those of his friends. She looked back at the champions and realized with a jolt that Jon was nowhere to be found.

She pries herself away from the crowd, racing to the empty common room. She curses herself — his leg was injured, he was probably in the hospital wing — and she races again across the castle to find him. He isn’t there, but the nurse, Maester Luwin, takes one look at her panicked face and forces her to stay until she calms down. Furious, Arya tries no fewer than five times to escape, but during her fifth attempt, the doors open to reveal an exhausted and pale Jon.

Arya throws herself into his arms.

“He’s back,” Jon whispers. “The Night King.”

Maester Luwin hustles Jon away for treatment, and Arya sits back on a bed in shock.

The shock takes days to wear off — Arya isn’t sure if it ever really _would_ wear off. The Night King has returned. He had hurt Jon, he had _killed_ Renly, and he certainly would hurt and kill many more. 

Arya is only twelve years old, and she has never felt smaller. She had looked forward to her first year at Hogwarts, to learn and control magic like her parents and older siblings. She had felt joy and pride at her first successful jinx, the first time she had successfully transfigured a worm into a working quill. 

But magic isn’t for fun any more. It is a weapon, a weapon that dark wizards would not hesitate to use against her or the ones she loved. Jon was in danger — her whole family is in danger by association — and Arya needs to protect herself and protect them.

Arya Stark has never backed down from a challenge. She isn’t about to start now.


	2. Arya Stark and the Night's Watch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unella is the name of the shame nun from the show - hard to find someone to match how horrible Umbridge is, right?

Arya’s summer is not going well.

The whole house is tense. Jon has been especially moody, which is understandable, but Arya is getting sick of it. All her attempts to cheer him — playing quidditch, pranking Sansa — have been rebuffed. Jon didn’t want to talk to her or anyone else. Arya was going out of her mind with boredom.

She had tried to spend a week with Shireen Baratheon early in the summer, but it had been a complete disaster. While Shireen herself was sweet, her parents were decidedly cold. Her father, Stannis, hardly spoke more than two words at a time, and her mother, Selyse, seemed to resent Shireen’s every movement about the house. She glared disapprovingly when Arya and Shireen went outside, and she glared just as much when they came back in. Arya was happy enough to ignore them, but it did make her wonder how Shireen had turned out to be so kindhearted in such a miserable household.

Arya had made things worse on her second morning with the Baratheons as they sat around the breakfast table. Stannis, ignoring everyone, was perusing the paper. Arya spoke before she could stop herself.

“Is there anything in there about The Night King?”

Shireen dropped her fork on the floor with a loud clang. Selyse gave a sort of soft scream. Stannis sharply lowered his paper and stared, his eyes slightly bulging.

“What did you say?”

“I’m sorry,” Arya said quickly, catching sight of Shireen’s pale face. “I meant He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named… I wondered if there have been any reports, if he’s hurt anybody since he came back.”

“Came back?” Stannis drew himself up imperiously in his chair, glaring down at Arya. “What do you mean, ‘came back’?”

Arya felt dumbstruck. Certainly they knew? The Baratheon house were a very old wizarding family; it wasn’t like they would miss the news that the darkest wizard of all time had resurfaced.

“He… he’s back,” said Arya lamely. “At the end of term… he’s the one… well, he’s the one who killed Renly.”

Stannis scoffed and Selyse gave a little shudder. Shireen was shaking her head slightly in horror, but for the life of her, Arya could not figure out what it meant.

“Renly Baratheon died in an accident,” Stannis said.

“No, he didn’t. He was murdered. By the Night — I mean, by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

“That stupid boy got himself killed in that ridiculous tournament.”

Arya felt heat rising in her chest. She felt like the world was tilting, and she was struggling to stay upright.

“But he was your nephew!”

“And what kind of boy was he!” said Selyse shrilly. “The things they say about him…”

“What things?” said Arya, looking to Shireen. “Everybody liked Renly. He was nice.”

“Nice! A bit _too_ nice with other boys, they say.”

“You mean Loras?” Arya said, confused. “What’s his boyfriend got to do with—”

“That’s enough!” shouted Stannis, slamming his paper onto the table. “Young lady, we do not speak of such things in this household.”

“He’s your nephew!” shouted Arya. “He was your own family! He was murdered, and you don’t even care?”

A terrible silence fell. Stannis rose from his seat.

“I shall send an owl to your mother to come collect you at once. You will be much happier back in Stark Manor.”

Not one hour later, and Arya’s mother Catelyn arrived to whisk her away. Arya had given Shireen a long hug.

“Are you sure you can’t come with us?” asked Arya.

“I can’t,” said Shireen miserably. “Dad will never let me.”

“I can’t believe they —”

“I can,” interrupted Shireen. “They’re always like that. They thought Renly was… you know. And Dad doesn’t believe anything that’s not in the _Daily Prophet_ , and they’re keeping quiet about You-Know-Who.” 

They gave each other a long, sad look before Arya’s mother took her home.

Arya had learned her lesson, and decided perhaps she could entice her friends to come to her instead, but it was no use. Lommy and Mycah were muggleborn. Not only did their parents want to spend as much time with them as possible, it would have been difficult for them to get to Stark Manor, which had several charms to hide it from view. Hot Pie was half-blood, and could have arranged a visit, but he was so scatter-brained that he kept forgetting to respond to Arya’s letters, making it impossible to plan.

Arya resigned herself to a long and boring summer. She never thought she would have been eager for school to begin again.

As summer wears on, her parents begin behaving strangely. Almost every night, they host guests for dinner. They aren’t the usual dinners, either. Normally, Catelyn Stark acts the life of the party, warmly greeting guests, and filling the house with noise. But these dinners are quiet, and it seems that Ned is the head of these affairs. Arya, Jon, and her siblings are sent outside to enjoy themselves and leave the adults alone. Arya doesn’t think too much of it at first, but the frequency starts to bother her.

One evening, she returns to the house to find her parent’s guest standing in the foyer, preparing to leave.

“Professor Tarth?”

The tall Charms professor turns, staring down at Arya. Arya is quite proud of the two inches she has grown over the summer, but standing next to her professor always makes her feel small. Her siblings enter from outside, gaping at their professor.

“Good evening,” says Professor Tarth, as formal and dignified as ever. “I bid you good night, Catelyn, Ned.” 

She nods to them and takes her leave.

“What was Professor Tarth doing here?” Robb demands.

Ned and Catelyn share a look, and Ned beckons them all to sit down. Catelyn takes Rickon to bed; he howls at the injustice of being left out, but the shouting dies down after a few minutes. Arya suspects he’s been bribed with sweets.

Ned Stark looks somber as he looks around the table at Jon and his children. He sighs and begins to explain.

Before they were born, the Night King had rapidly risen to power within the wizarding world. Dark wizards ran rampant, particularly the Night King’s closest followers, the White Walkers. Witches and wizards were being killed, their children harmed. It seemed no one could stop the Night King and his followers. No one even tried. No one, that was, except Jeor Mormont. Mormont had gathered loyal witches and wizards to fight, an organization that called itself the Night's Watch. Ned Stark himself had been a member, as had Catelyn. 

Ned holds up an old photograph. Members of the Night's Watch smiled and waved at them — two dozen witches and wizards, including a very familiar-looking man with an arm slung over her father’s shoulders.

“You’re starting the Watch again,” says Jon slowly. “That’s what all the dinners have been about.”

“Yes,” says Ned. “And I must ask that you never speak of anyone being a part of these meetings. There is safety in silence.”

“We want to join,” Robb says suddenly. “If he’s back, we want to fight.”

Catelyn, who had snuck back into the room during Ned’s explanation, looks stern.

“Absolutely not.”

“But mum!”

“You’re too young,” she says quickly, trying to stave off Jon and Robb’s protests. “When you’re of age, you can fight. But until then, you will stay out of this. Understood?”

One by one, her siblings slip out of the room and up to bed, grumbling a bit. Catelyn rises to get herself more tea, but Arya hangs back.

“Dad… the man in the photograph, the one standing next to you?”

Ned smiles ruefully. 

“My friend, Robert,” he says. “He was a good fighter. Took down many bad wizards. I’m sorry you never met him.”

“I _have_ met him,” she says. Ned raises his eyebrows, looking surprised. “He was a judge for the Triwizard tournament. He said… he said he was my friend Gendry’s dad.”

Ned heaves a long sigh.

“Robert was a good man,” he says slowly, thumbing the old photograph. “But war changes a person. After your aunt Lyanna was killed… well, the war ended for everyone else that day, but not for us. Robert… had a hard time. Didn’t always make the right decisions in his personal life.”

“Gendry is the same age as Jon,” she points out. Ned huffs out a laugh.

“He didn’t always make good decisions _before_ the war ended, either. But he was a good man at heart.”

“Was?”

Her father’s face falls, and Arya feels a terrible ache in her gut.

“We lost touch for a long while. I heard about his job at the Department of Magical Sports, and that he was a judge for the tournament. He was doing… maybe not great, but better. But the minute I heard the Night King was back… Robert had a big target on his back, having brought down so many dark wizards. No one has seen him in months. He could just be in hiding — the _Prophet_ is trying to play it off like he’s running from gambling debts, but…”

Arya stares at her father, horrified. Ned seems to realize he’s said too much, and reaches out to hold her hand.

“I don’t want you to be scared, Arya.”

“I’m not,” she says quickly. Too quickly. Ned smiles at her softly.

“It’s alright to be scared,” Ned continues. “But I want you to know that your mother and I are part of the Night’s Watch because we think it’s the right thing to do. We need to protect you, and to protect all witches and wizards from those who would hurt them.”

“Okay,” Arya whispers.

“Do you have any more questions?” her father says kindly. 

Arya shakes her head. 

“Alright, then. Go get some rest. We’re going to Diagon Alley in the morning to get your books.”

—

By the time Arya gets to school two weeks later, she and her siblings have spied on several more dinners. Most of the adults are unknown to them, but they spot a few of their friend’s parents, and a few more professors, too. Professor Syrio Forel appears with a gaggle of foreign wizards speaking in strange languages, and even Professor Tyrion Lannister comes once. Arya is highly suspicious of this; the Lannister family is known to house two of the most ardent supporters of the Night King — the Lannister twins, currently locked away in Azkaban for the rest of their lives. Still, Professor Lannister has always been fair to her and her siblings at school, so perhaps he isn’t quite as evil as his relatives.

Her professors make no sign of recognition that they have seen her over the summer as the student’s settle in for the Welcome Feast. Arya happily listens to the Sorting Hat’s Tune, although it seems much darker than the song her first year. Bran is sorted into Ravenclaw — _no surprise there_ , Arya thinks — and the whole school is prepared to tuck into the feast when a small witch next to Headmaster Mormont stands and gives a little _hem, hem_ to clear her throat. Headmaster Mormont looks down at her, bemused, but lets her speak.

Professor Unella is, without exception, the most boring person Arya has ever heard speak. The small witch drones on about cooperation and oversight in a high, girlish voice. Arya concentrates on pushing around her mashed potatoes into the shape of a wolf. Mycah is dozing next to her, and she spies Lommy half asleep across the hall. Shireen, on the other hand, is staring fixedly at Professor Unella, a frown deepening with every sentence.

“Do you realize what this means?” says Shireen the next morning at breakfast.

“That Unella is going to be an even worse Defense teacher than last year?” replies Lommy, helping himself to bacon.

“Not just that. It means…” Shireen glances around, looking for anyone eavesdropping. It’s hardly worth it — a group of students from mixed houses raises eyebrows, but the fact that they’re second years means they’re still basically invisible. Still, Shireen lowers her voice to a whisper. “The Ministry is trying to interfere at Hogwarts.”

“Interfere?” asks Mycah with a frown. “Why?”

“Because he’s back,” Arya says, the pieces fitting into place. “The Night King.”

A shiver passes through her friends.

“So it’s true then?” Hot Pie says, his voice trembling a little. “He’s really back?”

“‘Course he is.” Arya looks at her friends, surprised. “Don’t you remember what Headmaster Mormont said at the end of term? The Night King killed Renly.”

“Yes, but the _Prophet_ hasn’t said a word about it,” Shireen explains. 

“But Jon said…”

“Not everyone believes Jon Snow,” says Lommy. “Not that I’m doubting him!” he adds hastily, seeing Arya’s expression.

“Why wouldn’t they believe…”

“You haven’t been reading the papers, have you?” 

Shireen slides a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ across the table. Arya reads it quickly, and then spots it on the second read. There, a small throwaway line in the headlining article about new taxes on goblin gold.

_“It’s as farfetched an idea as a Snow conspiracy” said Minister Sparrow_

“What’s that supposed to mean?” says Arya hotly, forgetting to lower her voice. Several heads turn in their direction, and Mycah puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“The Ministry is scared,” Shireen whispers. “You saw it when you talked to Dad — he’s mentioned a few times that people keep presenting these conspiracy theories that You-Know-Who is back — _yes_ , Arya, I know he’s actually back — but people are scared and they don’t want to believe it.”

“So if they discredit Jon, then they discredit the idea that You-Know-Who is back,” says Mycah slowly. “It’d be genius if it weren’t such a terrible idea.”

“And now Unella is here, and you can bet she’s going to try to silence the story from the source as well.”

“Well, I’m not giving her the satisfaction,” spits Arya angrily. “When’s our first lesson with that toad?”

It turns out they don’t have Defense until Thursday, and it’s even worse than Arya anticipates.

“So we’re not going to bother learning anything?” Arya says after Professor Unella announces that they will spend the entirety of the lesson reading the first chapter of their textbook.

“My dear,” says Professor Unella in a falsely sweet voice. “You will be learning the basics of Defense in a Ministry-appropriate curriculum throughout the year. Please turn to page five and —”

“But when will get to actually _practice_ any of this?”

“Miss Stark.” Unella’s voice has lost some of its falsetto “Turn to page five.”

“But —”

“One more outburst, Miss Stark, and it shall be ten points from Gryffindor. Your fellow students are here to learn and you will not disrupt them.”

Arya is fuming, but the pleading look on Mycah’s face keeps her silent.

She complains to Jon later in the common room, but she’s surprised by his reaction.

“Don’t test her,” Jon says quickly. “It’s not worth it.”

“Not worth it? Jon, we aren’t going to learn _anything_ …”

“I mean it, Arya. Just keep your head down.”

This is so unlike Jon, especially given his tendency towards angry outbursts these days, that Arya writes to her father. She receives a response two days later in her father’s neat hand.

_I know it’s frustrating to disagree with a teacher’s choices. When I was your age, we had a potions professor who was always unfair to Gryffindor — took points off of us whenever he had the chance. I tried to keep my head down, and I tried speaking up, and you know what worked best? Learning the material. If I could do the work, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. I know it’s frustrating, but you’re a smart girl. Learn everything you can on your own, and I know you’ll come out on top. When you’re home for the summer, we can work on it together — I can pull a favor with Mormont._

This buoys Arya’s spirits. None of her siblings have been allowed to do magic over the summer holidays, despite the fact that their father could easily get around the restrictions on underage magic for them. She contents herself with reading the stupid book and dreaming up new types of hexes and counterhexes. Maybe she can test some out next summer with her father.

—

The last warm summer days give way to a crisp and clear fall. Arya spends as much of her free time as possible on the Quidditch pitch.

She hasn’t made the Gryffindor team — the only positions open were for the beaters, and she’s much too small to have any force with a bat — but she picks up her usual habit with Gendry. Robb is furious about this; he’s convinced Gendry is trying to get inside information on the Gryffindor team.

“But I’m not even _on_ the team, Robb,” she protests.

“You’ve been playing with Jon and me all summer, and then Ygritte came to stay and that’s almost half the team right there!”

“He’s never asked me anything about any of you.”

“Then why’s he bothering playing Quidditch with you?”

“Maybe because I’m not a total prat like you, Robb. Leave me alone.”

“Can I at least ask if you’ve got any intel on him? Hufflepuff is our second match this year.”

“Yeah. If Gendry hits a Bludger at you, you better duck.”

“Hilarious.”

“Goodbye, Robb.”

Arya and Gendry practice together on Tuesday afternoons and Sunday mornings, rain or shine. Gendry gets plenty of practice time with the Hufflepuff team, but he claims he still wants the extra practice with her.

“You’re a harder target to hit than anyone I’ve ever come across,” he says. “Smaller and faster than pretty much anyone else at the school.”

Arya hides her flush of prideful embarrassment by throwing a pinecone at Gendry’s head. He bats it into the upper stands easily.

—

As the school year plods on, excitement builds for the first big match of the Quidditch season: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. It’s always a tense match, but it’s made worse by the fact that the Slytherin seeker, Ramsey Bolton, is without a doubt the biggest prick Arya has ever had the misfortune to meet. 

At first glance, Ramsey appears to be like all the other arrogant wizards obsessed with blood purity, but it’s much worse than that. Arya has seen Ramsey hex people when their backs are turned, push a first year down because she was in his way, even brag about having used magic to reprimand the family house elf. Arya is convinced Ramsey Bolton is a psychotic monster, and he’s about to go toe-to-toe with her cousin. The fact that Jon and Ramsey have loathed each other since their first year at Hogwarts only makes the rivalry more twisted. 

Fortunately, Slytherin is no match for the strength of Gryffindor. The new beaters are pretty mediocre — in fact, one of them almost manages to hit Robb — but the rest of the team is unstoppable. Yrgritte guards the goal while Jon swoops around, looking for the snitch. Robb, along with seventh-years Grenn, and Pyp, pass the Quaffle with choreographed speed and flair. They score goal after goal until Jon swoops past Ramsey and grabs the snitch.

Arya cheers wildly from the stands. Her first Hogwarts Quidditch match, and a huge victory for her house! She can’t wait to celebrate — she has heard many tales from Robb and Jon about the celebratory feasts.

Arya’s dreams of a party are abruptly put on hold when Jon punches Ramsey Bolton in the face.

No one will quite tell her what was said — they all assume it’s too rude for Arya’s young ears to hear — but she gathers it was something insulting about Jon’s deceased mother. Ramsey had even gotten in a few cracks about Grenn and Pyp’s mothers before the three of them descended on him and beat him bloody. The only reason Robb hadn’t been involved was that he had been furiously snogging Talisa Westerling on the sidelines. Professor Unella had whisked Jon, Grenn, and Pyp away, and they emerged into the quiet common room with their shoulders slumped.

“Banned,” says Robb in a hollow voice. “All three of you, banned… Couldn’t we ask Headmaster —”

“No,” Jon says darkly. “We can’t. She took our brooms.”

It is one of the worst nights Arya had ever had at Hogwarts. She offers to put cockroaches in Professor Unella’s tea for Jon, but he just gives her a half-hearted smile and goes to bed.

The only good part of the ban is that now there is an opening for Gryffindor seeker. Arya is privately thrilled when she is picked, although she keeps it quiet for Jon’s sake.

“It’s not a big deal,” she tells her friends. “They just needed someone.”

Still, she’s pleased when Lommy, Shireen, Hot Pie, and Mycah surprise her with a small cake shaped like a snitch. They eat it quickly before anyone notices.

Quidditch practices are pretty miserable. The beaters are still shaky — Arya wishes for the thousandth time that Gendry was in her house — and the new chasers are nothing to write home about. Robb, who had been overjoyed at finally being named Quidditch captain at the start of term, frequently ended practices on the verge of tears. 

To make matters worse, Arya’s attempts to keep her head down in Professor Unella’s class were becoming less and less effective. She was bored, and so were most of her fellow second years. Professor Unella had caught Arya and Mycah practicing jinxes in an empty classroom and given them both a week’s detention. Mycah had been distraught — he had never been in trouble before — but Arya had been furious.

“How are we supposed to protect ourselves from the Night King and White Walkers if we never get to use magic?” she had fumed to Jon.

Jon, who had been snappish and sullen since his Quidditch ban, looked at Arya with interest.

“You planning on fighting some White Walkers?”

“Well, not now. But eventually, yeah.”

“Arya, you’re twelve.”

“I’ll be thirteen soon!” she replied hotly. “And that’s not the point. White Walkers aren’t going to go easy on us just because we’re kids. We have to know how to defend ourselves.”

Jon was quiet for a long time, and Arya went back to her Potions essay for Professor Lannister. Before he went up to bed, Jon leaned over and whispered to her.

“If you really want to fight, come up to the seventh floor on Wednesday night. Across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Make sure you’re not followed.”

Curious, Arya drags Mycah along with her to the meeting. They’re the youngest attendees, and they seemed to have missed the initial sign-up meeting — furtively held in the Hog’s Head Pub the weekend prior — but Jon lets them add their name to the list. He even says it would be okay to bring Shireen, Lommy, and Hot Pie so long as they can keep a secret.

“What should we call ourselves?” asks Sam Tarly. He seems to have been the brains behind this idea, and Arya can’t say she’s surprised. Sam is the brains behind most of Jon’s better plans — the reckless ones tend to be his idea alone.

“The ‘Unella-Can-Shove-It Brigade’,” shouts Ygritte from the back corner. Laughter rings out around the room.

“Not sure we can safely use that in public,” Sam says, but a smile plays around his lips.

“The whole point is to prepare ourselves for fighting You-Know-Who, right?” grumbles Pyp. “What about the Mormont's Army then?”

“The M.A. for short,” adds Grenn. “That way it’s not obvious.”

“All in favor?” The members in the room room raise their hands as one. Sam scribbles on the top of the list of names. “Mormont's Army it is!”

Mormont's Army is made mostly of Gryffindors — everyone in Jon’s year is in it — as well as a few Ravenclaws like Sansa and her friends. Bran is deemed too young to join, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. He’s more interested in History of Magic than Defense anyway.

Arya ends up recruiting most people from the other houses. Her second year friends are all eager to join. There’s some argument that they, too, are too young, but a particularly nasty Bat Bogey Hex from Shireen silences further protests. Now every house is represented, although Lommy is the sole representative from Slytherin.

“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging. “Most of them think I’m strange for being friends with you guys anyway. They won’t ask me what I’m up to.”

Arya understands the need for secrecy of the group — Unella is growing more and more powerful as the days pass — but it wars with her belief that they should all be protecting themselves. Mormont's Army will learn Defense under Jon’s tutelage, which Arya is certainly grateful for, but it won’t help the rest of her peers should the White Walkers come knocking. Everyone else seems to think this is a far-fetched idea, but Arya remembers the secretive dinners her parents held, the assembling of the Night's Watch. She knows her father is cautious, but not paranoid. If he is preparing for war, so must Arya and her fellow students.

—

A few days later, Arya admits defeat on her Potions essay and goes to the library. Surely she can find a book referencing the use of moonstones in engorgement potions there. She knows Professor Lannister mentioned it in class, and now she can’t seem to find her notes.

She’s searching through a back back corner close to the Restricted Section when she spots Gendry. He’s holding his wand up, swishing it back and forth wordlessly.

“Are you practicing for a fight?”

“Gods, Arya!” Gendry jumps, startled. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on people?”

“No. What are you doing?”

“If you must know,” Gendry says sourly, “I’m trying to figure out the wand movement for this counter-jinx. We’ve been reading about it in Unella’s class all week, but I just can’t picture it…”

“So you _are_ practicing for a fight.”

Gendry rolls his eyes. “And who am I supposed to be fighting?”

“If you’re going to fight, you should learn to do it right. What are you doing Wednesday night?”

Gendry comes to his first Mormont's Army meeting that week, and he brings his fellow Hufflepuff fifth years the week after. Robb is annoyed — he still suspects Gendry is trying to gain the upper hand in Quidditch — and Jon is concerned at the growing size of the group, but Sam Tarly happily lets them sign their names to the list. Best of all, Arya gets to practice jinxes with Gendry now, which is just as fun as their Quidditch practices. He shows no mercy, and hits her in the shoulder with a stinging hex. He apologizes profusely, but he stops when she gets him back with a vicious jelly-legs jinx that it takes him ten minutes to undo.

Mormont's Army is a bright spot in a very dim end of term. Christmas break is a welcome respite. For two glorious weeks, Arya gets to sleep in her warm bed and not worry about Professor Unella’s stupid class, or how terribly Quidditch is going. She has breakfast with her father as he quizzes her on jinxes. He promises that once summer comes, they can practice outside.

Arya’s family celebrates her thirteenth birthday before they return to school. Her mother makes a big chocolate cake, which Rickon steals a bite out of before it’s served. Catelyn scolds him and Arya laughs so hard she almost cries.

Back at school, Arya and the Gryffindor Quidditch team have two weeks to prepare for their match against Hufflepuff. She stops practicing with Gendry. It’s nothing personal, but they both have so many extra practices with their own teams that they can hardly make time for each other. They run into each other in the library on her actual birthday, two nights before the match. Gendry slides her chocolate frog across the table.

“I know it’s not much, but…” He looks embarrassed by his paltry gift. Arya holds it up.

“This is great,” she says, and she means it. “Really, I haven’t had one in ages and —”

“FOOD!” yells the ancient librarian, sidling up to their table. “IN THE LIBRARY? GET OUT THIS INSTANT!”

They run off, laughing.

“See you on Saturday?”

“We’re going to flatten you, Waters.” 

It’s a lie — Arya would be surprised if her pathetic team could manage to eke out any goals against Hufflepuff — but she puffs her chest out all the same. Gendry smirks at her.

“I’m going to knock you off your broom, Stark.”

“That’d be a change of pace. You’ve never managed that before.”

“You just wait, ‘Arry. I’ve got big things planned.”

Arya laughs and races up towards Gryffindor Tower. She eats her chocolate frog and goes to bed.

—

Saturday morning approaches with a grey sky, but it’s not raining, so Arya can’t complain. The weak January light filtering through the clouds barely illuminates the Hufflepuff players across from her. Arya feels dwarfed by her Quidditch robes, but she tries to stand tall. She turns her head to sneak a peak at Gendry. She feels her jaw drop.

Gendry Waters is really, ridiculously handsome.

Arya shakes her head. What was happening? She had been friends with Gendry for a year and a half and not once had she had thought about his looks. Alright, maybe _once_ , but it was never like _this_. She had seen him in his Quidditch robes before, but she hadn’t remembered them being stretched quite so tightly across his broad shoulders. She didn’t remember the set of his chiseled jaw, and surely she would have noticed just how blue his eyes were before now?

She feels sick to her stomach. _No, no, no, no_ , she thinks. _He can’t be handsome. He’s my friend. It’s just the light shining down on him…_

But there is no light shining down on him. It’s grey and dark and everyone else looks like shit. But Gendry is glowing, tall and windswept, and Arya feels her stomach flip as he catches her eye.

He frowns at her.

_You alright?_ he mouths.

Arya flushes as red as her robes and scowls at him. He smirks back, apparently satisfied that she is fine.

_He probably thinks I’m just nervous for my first match_ , she tries to reassure herself. _He doesn’t know what I was thinking. Oh, Merlin, what if he finds out I think he’s handsome?_

But Arya doesn’t have much time to panic about Gendry, because the whistle is blown and the match begins. She has a Snitch to hunt for.

The game starts disastrously and only gets worse. The Gryffindor chasers are out of sync, and the beaters can barely withstand Gendry’s strikes of the Bludger. The whole team has to repeatedly scatter every time he sends a ball towards them. Arya tries to focus on the Snitch and not how Gendry’s arms look as he swings his bat.

Ygritte does her best, but she’s bombarded by the Hufflepuff chasers. A half-hour goes by and Hufflepuff are up 170 to 10.

Arya sees a flash of gold, and does some quick math in her head. If she catches the Snitch now, her team will lose. But if she waits, they might lose by even more…. 

She’s saved from agonizing by the Hufflepuff seeker, who goes into a dive. Arya streaks after her, weaving around one of Gendry’s Bludgers easily. She hears a _CRACK_ and knows exactly what’s going to happen. She dodges to the left, and the Bludger sails past her, grazing the Hufflepuff seeker and knocking her off balance. Arya swoops below and extends her hand.

A cheer goes up in the stands, although she’s not sure for whom. Arya holds the Snitch, its golden wings fluttering helplessly in her fist. Gryffindor has lost, 160 to 170.

“You did the right thing,” says Robb gravely, after he flies over to give her a hug. “They would’ve destroyed us… good job, Arya.”

They land on the ground where the Hufflepuff students have stormed the field. It’s rare that they beat Gryffindor. The fact that the Gryffindor team is without three of its usual players is irrelevant. A win is a win.

“Nice catch.”

Arya whirls around. Gendry towers over her, glistening with sweat. Damn him, he looks all the more handsome for it. Arya crosses her arms.

“You didn’t knock me off my broom.”

Gendry laughs.

“As if I could!” He extends out a hand for her to shake. “Good game, ‘Arry.”

Arya eyes him warily, but shakes his hand. It’s warm and she feels her stomach flip with excitement. She avoids his gaze, horrified at what’s happening inside of her.

“Thanks,” she says dully. “But we lost.”

“You were great though. I thought —”

But the rest of his sentence is drowned out as he is all but tackled by his teammates. They’re a group of his fellow fifth years — Jack, Lem, and Anguy, all chasers on the team — and they’re bellowing something about Gendry being a bull. 

Arya turns and heads towards the showers. She has to admit, even though they lost, she _is_ pleased that she caught the Snitch. She just hopes she can wash away these ridiculous feelings she has about Gendry.

—

She settles back in to her normal routine, but there’s a part of her brain that stays fixed on the fact that Gendry is very, very handsome. About a month in, she abandons her attempts to ignore this fact and instead proceeds to process it the best way she can: mercilessly teasing Gendry to get his undivided attention. This plan works well in part because she has been teasing him since they met, so he doesn’t seem to suspect any changes in her behavior.

The M.A. meetings are still the best part of school. Arya and her friends are loads better than when they started, and she’s sure they’re the best in Defense in their year. Not that any of them would ever get to prove it, given that they are still spending their Defense classes quietly reading their textbook, but Arya feels the knowledge of their power like a flame inside her. She finds a small part of herself hoping that the day will come that she gets to use her skills and take down a few White Walkers herself.

One particularly stormy morning, Arya is buttering her toast for breakfast when Shireen lets out a sputtering cough.

“Oi!” shouts Hot Pie. “You got juice all over me. What’s —”

“Look at this,” Shireen gasps through her coughing, sliding her copy of the _Daily Prophet_ across the table. Lommy and Mycah lean in next to Arya and they read.

_Massive Breakout in Azkaban Prison_

_Authorities were baffled today to discover that several cells in Azkaban prison had been opened, leading to the escape of several high-profile criminals. Notably among the escapees are Gregor Clegane, also known as the Mountain, and the Lannister Twins: Cersei and Jaime Lannister. All three were convicted for their crimes in service of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named more than sixteen years ago. There are currently no suspects involved in the breakout, although the Ministry has admitted that there were fewer Dementors on duty than expected. This reporter noted that the sun was shining brightly down on the prison as authorities continued their investigation._

“A break out?” Hot Pie’s voice squeaks in fear.

“ _No suspects involved_ ” Lommy reads aloud. “But it must be You-Know-Who! Who else in their right mind would want to free the Mountain or the Lannister Twins?”

“It’s worse than that,” says a pale Mycah. “He’s got the Dementors on his side, too.”

“How do you figure?”

“Look. _This reporter noted that the sun was shining brightly_. Dementors cause fog, so if there’s no fog…”

“There are no Dementors,” Arya finishes. Her hands are shaking, but she’s not sure if it’s fear or fury.

They sit in stunned silence until the first bell, and they hurry off to Transfiguration.

The hexes flying about the M.A. meeting that evening are tinged with a desperate fury. Everyone seems affected by the news of the breakout. Most are frightened, but every single member seems determined to continue the meetings anyway. One of Gendry’s friends, Jack, cracks a mirror in half with the force of his slashing jinx, and even Sansa manages to set a tower of books aflame. Jon is quiet and focused, softly correcting their aim and their technique, but he lets them fight as ferociously as they want. Arya sends a practice dummy flying across the room and she feels moderately better.

A cloud hangs over Hogwarts the whole week. Arya dreads Sunday evening; ever since the start of term the previous fall, Sansa had instituted a Sunday night Stark family dinner.

“We need to make sure Bran feels welcomed at Hogwarts,” Sansa had explained.

“How come you didn’t do it last year for me?” Arya asked.

“Because you hate having to spend extra time with me, and you’re already at the same House table as Jon and Robb.”

“I can hear you,” complained Bran. “You don’t have to baby me.”

“We’re not babying you,” Sansa continued. “We Starks have to stick together.”

Sansa had had the good sense to tell Catelyn and Ned about her plan, and both were delighted. Catelyn had, of course, warned Arya to behave herself and go along with her sister’s plans.

It was nice to have one meal a week with her siblings and Jon, not that Arya would ever admit it to Sansa.

As they settle in at the Ravenclaw table, the atmosphere is tense. Jon is in a foul mood — the _Daily Prophet_ had been hitting him particularly hard that week, probably to distract the public from the recent Azkaban breakout. Everywhere Jon had gone, people in the halls had been whispering about him. Arya couldn’t blame him for feeling out of sorts, but it was making it difficult to enjoy her pot roast.

A group of Slytherin girls walk by on their way to their table, and burst into whispers as they pass Jon. He stabs his potatoes so savagely that one flies off his plate and onto Robb’s.

“You know, there is something you could do about all this,” says Sansa, ignoring the gravy that landed inches from her sleeve.

“Oh, yeah?” barks Jon. “Shall I just go talk to them, then? Tell them it’s all true, that I’m an emotionally disturbed liar just like they feared?”

Sansa gives Jon a measured stare. She looks so much like Catelyn that Arya automatically double checks that her elbows are off the dinner table to avoid a scolding.

“People are only hearing the Ministry’s version of events. You could change that.”

“How?”

“Tell them yours.”

“Come off it,” interjects Robb. “There’s no way the _Prophet_ is going to print anything that Jon has to say.”

“There are other publications, Robb.”

“ _The Quibbler_!” whispers Bran excitedly.

“No one believes _The Quibbler_ , Bran,” says Arya. “It’s all rubbish.”

Bran frowns at her. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“NO, it’s NOT.”

“Arya, Bran, please,” says Sansa calmly. “Yes, the Quibbler has a reputation for… _unique_ choices in journalism, but they _would_ print your story, Jon.”

“How do you know that?”

“My friend Jojen said they would!” Bran sits up, excited. “His dad is editor-in-chief.”

“Howland Reed?” says Robb. “I remember him. He’s friends with Dad… bit of an odd bloke, but he has to be better than the Ministry if Dad thinks he’s all right.”

“I don’t know,” says Jon skeptically. “Who would write it? And who would even read it?”

“ _Everyone_ would read it, Jon,” says Arya impatiently. “People have wanted to know your side of the story for months. Everyone’s tried asking us about it —” her siblings nod in agreement with her — “but we’ve kept quiet because, well… you didn’t seem to want to talk about it, and it’s not like we were there. We don’t really know what happened, either.”

“As for who would write it,” Sansa says as Jon opens his mouth to protest again. “We happen to know a writer.”

“Who?”

“Margaery Tyrell.”

“She was in Slytherin!”

“Really, Robb?” Sansa rolls her eyes. “Is that your biggest problem with her?”

“Who’s to say she isn’t a fan of You-Know-Who? I mean, her family has been in Slytherin for ages, and they’re pureblood.”

“So are we, Robb. And the Tyrells are _not_ on You-Know-Who’s side.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Remember the photo that Dad showed us of the Night’s Watch?” Sansa lowers her voice to a whisper. “There was a witch in the back with a rose on her hat. I recognized it — it’s the Tyrell family crest. It was Olenna Tyrell, Margaery’s grandmother.”

“She helped fight against You-Know-Who?” asked Bran.

“Yes. And the Tyrells were punished for it. The Lannisters were accused of killing Margaery and Loras’s parents when they were just babies. Olenna raised them both. Trust me, Margaery might _look_ the part of a good pureblood Slytherin, but there’s no way she’d join up with You-Know-Who, not after what her family has been through.”

“How do you even know her?” asks Arya.

“She tutored me in Charms,” explains Sansa, helping herself to another serving of peas.

“But Charms is your best subject.”

“It is now. First year, I had a hard time.”

“Why didn’t you ask one of us?” frowns Robb.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “It wasn’t like I set out to find her. She saw me struggling in the library and offered to help.”

“But she’s a _Slytherin_. Why would she want to help you?”

“For the thousandth time, Robb,” snapped Arya. “Not all Slytherins are evil!”

Robbs waves a hand dismissively “She probably had some ulterior motive. Influence a Stark and all that.”

Sansa rolls her eyes again and sighs. 

“Whatever the reason,” she proceeds calmly, despite her obvious annoyance. “She helped me. And she kept helping through last year. I know how to get in contact with her, and I know for a fact that she wants a good story to break.”

Jon pushes around the peas on his plate, deep in thought.

“You really think people will listen?” he says in a quiet voice.

“I guarantee it.”

—

Sansa is, of course, right. When the next issue of _The Quibbler_ is released, it spreads around the whole school like wildfire.

“Have you seen this?” says Hot Pie excitedly. “He talks about everything that happened to Renly last year. Did you know You-Know-Who really…”

“ _Hem, hem_ ”

Arya and her friends jump. Professor Unella appears from behind Hot Pie’s wide frame. She waves a newly framed piece of parchment that she’s clearly about to fix to the notice board behind them.

“According to Educational Decree Number 45,” she says in a falsely sweet voice, “all copies of _The Quibbler_ are banned within Hogwarts grounds due to material that is unsuitable for minors.”

Arya makes an angry movement towards Unella, but Mycah seizes the back of her robes and she’s forced to stay put. Hot Pie glumly surrenders his copy. They watch as Professor Unella bustles away from them, the crumpled paper clenched in her fist.

Once she’s out of sight, Shireen grins and pulls out a second copy. 

“A fourth year showed me how to bewitch it,” she says, tapping the paper. It immediately goes blank, and only resumes it regular form when she taps it twice.

“Excellent!” cries Lommy. “I haven’t read it yet.”

It seems that _The Quibbler_ article has managed to make its way around Hogwarts in spite of Unella’s attempts to snuff out the story. Everywhere Arya goes, the only thing people are discussing is Jon Snow’s account of the rise of the Night King. Arya herself gets dragged into several discussions by first and second years who recognize her as Jon’s cousin and ply her for more details.

Although Professor Unella continues to dictate increasingly paranoid and restrictive Educational Decrees, Arya is actually enjoying the spring term. She’s doing extremely well in Transfiguration, regularly earning points for Gryffindor for being the fastest to master new spells. Somehow Catelyn manages to hear about this (probably through Sansa — Arya should never have boasted about it at Sunday dinner), and sends her a letter effusive with praise. Arya hides it in her dresser drawer. There’s a small part of her beaming with pride that her mother is _finally_ pleased with her, but she definitely doesn’t want anyone to know about it.

The weekly Mormont's Army meetings continue, and Arya continues to rapidly improve in Defense as well. She’s impressed with what Jon has taught them; every single student has now mastered Stunning spells, Body-bind Hexes, and Shield Charms. It’s certainly not going to bring down any White Walkers single-handedly, but it’s enough knowledge to at least help them escape if they get into a tight corner.

They get into a tight corner mid-April, but it’s not one they can jinx their way out of.

For months, Professor Unella has suspected that there was some sort of unauthorized group meeting happening. She had issued Educational Decree after Educational Decree — banning meetings between more than three students unless prior authorization was given, restricting curfew hours, even requiring all students to sign an “oath of loyalty” to Hogwarts, whatever that meant — but the secret of Mormont’s Army had held.

Arya never learns who gives them away. She itches to get revenge on whomever it was, but Jon keeps quiet about what happened. All she knew was that one minute they had been enjoying a fun practice of the Impediment jinx, and the next they were fleeing from Unella and her stupid squad of loyal students. They were lucky to not have been caught, and Unella could never actually prove that Mormont's Army was anything more than just a list of student’s names. But there were consequences: Headmaster Mormont had vanished in the aftermath. Jon claimed he had been ousted by the Hogwarts board, although Arya heard some more outlandish theories from Bran’s friend, Jojen, that Mormont had decided to go on holiday to find Crumple-Horned Snorckacks in Finland.

Without Mormont's Army, school became quite dull again. Fortunately, the end of the Quidditch season was drawing close so Arya could at least focus her disgruntled feelings on the pitch.

It seemed that Gryffindor was not the only team that had struggled for form throughout the season. Hufflepuff may have beaten Gryffindor, but they had fallen to Slytherin — Gendry had been in a lousy mood for a week afterwards — and only narrowly beat Ravenclaw. Slytherin, however, had fallen to Ravenclaw just a month after, and now it was the very last match of the season: Ravenclaw versus Gryffindor. The margins between the teams were more narrow than ever, and Robb endlessly quizzed Arya on possible combinations. The bottom line was that she had to wait to catch the Snitch until they were at least sixty points up. Otherwise, they would win the game but lose the cup.

“If Slytherin had beaten Ravenclaw by just twenty more points, it would have closed the gap more and —”

“For the thousandth time, Robb, I know! Sixty points!”

Arya is more nervous than she had ever been before the morning of the match. It was a beautiful sunny day with only a hint of a breeze. The teams line up to face each other and Robb shakes hands with the Ravenclaw captain before they take to the skies. The crowd erupts in cheers as the whistle sounds, and Arya speeds off. 

Her aim is to pursue the Ravenclaw seeker, a tall seventh year boy with long dreadlocks, and block him from getting the Snitch until the moment is right. Arya doubts very much her team can get sixty points up in the first place, but she can at least try to spare them some embarrassment.

To her surprise, Robb’s relentless practices seem to be paying dividends. Within ten minutes, Gryffindor is up thirty to ten, and by the time half an hour has passed the score is eighty to thirty. Just one more goal and Arya could hunt the Snitch in earnest…

A glimmer of gold near the Ravenclaw goalposts flashes and both Arya and the Ravenclaw boy speed towards it. Arya follows underneath, swooping up to block him seconds before they reach their goal. The boy thuds into her and she is almost knocked from her broom, spinning wildly towards the Ravenclaw keeper. Distracted, the keeper dodges Arya but misses the oncoming Quaffle. A roar echoes from the Gryffindor end. 

Gryffindor is sixty points up.

In the commotion, the Snitch has disappeared, but by the time Arya rights herself, she spots it again. It hovers, gleaming, high above the center of the pitch. Arya races towards it, half aware of the Ravenclaw chasers mounting an attack on the Gryffindor goal below her. If they scored before she reached the Snitch…

She all but throws herself from her broom, her fingertips just barely circling the wing of the Snitch before she can yank it into her fist. Her heart is pounding so hard she can barely hear the crowd. She stares at the Snitch fluttering helplessly in her grasp until Robb slams into her in midair.

“You did it! You did it! Sixty bloody points and we _won_!”

The field comes back into focus. The rest of the team has swarmed her, grabbing at her from all sides, except for Ygritte, who is flying upside-down above them, whooping loudly. Several red flares have been lit in the Gryffindor section of the stands. 

When they finally land, students have flooded onto the field. Arya is hoisted up onto Grenn and Pyp's shoulders, and they refuse to set her down until they reach the common room. 

They pass by a group of Hufflepuffs in the corridors, and Arya spotted Gendry.

“‘Arry!” Gendry bellows, startling several first-year Slytherins trying to weave their way through the crowd. “Nice catch!"

Arya feels her face heat, but she manages a little wave before the Gryffindor crowd surges forward, away from Gendry and his friends.

The party in Gryffindor common room lasts until well past midnight. Professor Forel tries to get them to settle down, but it's extremely half-hearted. Arya almost falls asleep next to the fireplace before Mycah forces her to go to bed.

The next morning at breakfast, the Gryffindor students are bleary-eyed but pleased. Arya is happy about winning, of course, but the best part of the celebrations arrives right before she finishes her porridge.

A beautiful snowy owl alights in front of her with a large letter attached. Arya pats the owl’s head and unfurls the parchment to read her father's handwriting.

_Dear Arya_

_I just heard about your Quidditch match. Congratulations — I am thrilled your hard work this year paid off. A Quidditch Cup in only your second year! Gryffindor is in good hands._

_Your mother would like me to remind you that your exams are coming and you should make sure you stay on top of your studies. I am sure your exams will go well._

_I am so proud of you, Arya. You always were a fighter; from the very minute you were born, you always went after what you wanted.I know you will do many great things in your life, and I look forward to seeing it._

_All my love,_

_Ned_

Arya keeps the letter on her bedside table and reads it every night before her exams. She can’t wait to practice defense with her father this summer.

—

It’s almost midnight when Professor Forel appears in the girl’s dormitories to shake Arya awake. His face is more somber than Arya has ever seen and she immediately knows something is terribly, terribly wrong.

Arya quickly starts to piece things together, adrenaline erasing the remnants of sleep from her body. They are walking west, towards the Hospital Wing. Professor Forel had only come to collect her, not Jon or Robb. That meant one of two possibilities: the first was that one of Arya’s friends had gotten hurt — unlikely, as they had all gone to bed early following the end of their exams — or Jon and Robb were injured and already in the Hospital Wing. 

Arya’s fears are confirmed when they crossed Professor Tarth in the hallway, leading Sansa and Bran in the same direction. Both of them look terrified, and Arya could only assume she looked much the same.

As the doors swing open, Arya tries to take in the scene before her. Jon and his friends are clustered in the center of the room. Ygritte is slumped against Jon’s shoulder, bright white bandages wrapped around her arms. Sam is holding his side with a pained look. Grenn and Pyp appear to be sleeping; half of Pyp’s face is covered with some sort of orange paste and Grenn’s wand is snapped in half on his bedside table. Jon looks shaken and pale, but it is Robb who truly startles Arya.

Robb, always so confident and cheerful, so sure of himself and of everything he did, takes one look at his siblings and lets out the most horrible wail Arya has ever heard. It is a howl of absolute pain, the deepest hurt. Sansa and Bran appear struck dumb by the sound. Arya tries to move closer to Robb, but he flinches away and angrily punches his pillow.

Confused and afraid, she looks at Jon. There are tears streaming down his face.

“Your father… Ned… he… he’s dead. Cersei Lannister killed him.”

There are two periods in Arya’s life now: before her father’s death, and after. Her heart is immediately wrenched in two. The first half disappears. Arya knows she will never feel it again.

The rest of the evening is a blur as events are explained. Jon had been manipulated by the Night King — visions sent to him showing Ned Stark’s torture — and had escaped the Hogwarts grounds with his friends to save Ned Stark. Of course, Ned had been safe at home, and Jon and his friends had walked straight into a trap set by the Night King and his White Walkers. They had been lucky to escape with their lives thanks to the arrival of members of the Night's Watch.

But it had come at a terrible price. In protecting Jon, Ned Stark had been struck fatally by Cersei Lannister. She had laughed as he died.

Arya does not go to the end-of-term feast. She does not say goodbye to Mycah, Lommy, Hot Pie, or Shireen. She does not play Quidditch with Gendry. Arya packs up her trunk and leaves with Jon and her siblings to return to Stark Manor.

Arya does not practice defense charms with her father that summer. Ned Stark is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! More to come :)


	3. Arya Stark and the Bastard

If Arya had thought the summer before her second year was bad, this was infinitely worse.

There is a gaping hole inside of her chest where her heart had been. Nothing could ever fill it, so she doesn’t even try. She doesn’t play Quidditch, she doesn’t talk to her siblings, and she doesn’t respond to her friend’s increasingly desperate letters. She walls herself up in her room, reading and re-reading her textbooks, then Sansa’s textbooks, then Robb’s and Jon’s. Arya was never much one for sitting still, but she is determined. In these books is the knowledge to hurt, the knowledge to kill. 

She would hunt down the people who killed her father. She would make them pay.

Arya isn’t a fool. She is a thirteen year old witch and would easily be taken down by a White Walker. Her revenge will not be sudden. She is capable of being patient when it really mattered. Everyone thought she was impulsive and hot-headed, and sure, she could lose her temper. But if there was something she really wanted, she could wait for it.

Her revenge could wait. When the time came, she would be ready.

Everyone’s grief manifests itself in different ways. Bran and Sansa are quiet and withdrawn, like Arya, but Rickon and Robb grow loud and angry. Catelyn does the best she can to hide her mourning, but there is a tinge of desperation in her actions. The whole family had to be all together for every single meal, no matter what. Arya caught her mother constantly counting, as if checking that all her children were still in one place.

Jon, strangely, seems to be coping the best. After a year of nasty outbursts, Ned Stark’s death had forced him to return to center. Jon had saved many a dinner from burning as a distracted Catelyn wandered absently around the kitchen, and it was Jon who stopped Rickon from getting into fights with other children in their neighborhood. Arya knew that Jon was hurt — his guilt for his part in Ned’s death painted his every action — but he was trying to use his hurt to push himself forward.

Their path, so muddied and rough after the second rise of the Night King, is now clear. They had to destroy the Night King before he destroyed them.

Still, brute force alone did not always work to drive Arya forward. There were nights that she spent awake and paralyzed, lying on her bed and staring at the ceiling. Sometimes Bran would wander in and join her. They would listen to Robb shouting in the distance, to Sansa’s quiet weeping through the wall. But they would not move, frozen by their grief.

A week before school starts again, Arya receives an owl with a strange letter. It is a fat little pygmy owl that Hot Pie used to send her letters. All summer, Arya had received letters from Shireen, Mycah, Lommy, and Hot Pie, but she had not returned any. She didn’t plan on doing so now, but she was intrigued by the attachment. It looked like a muggle letter, with one of those picture things attached in the corner — a stand? A stall? Arya planned on taking Muggle Studies in the fall, but her vocabulary was still weak. Hot Pie’s address is on the back, but Hot Pie’s own writing was on the front of the envelope.

_Hi ‘Arry. Sorry, I forgot to send you this. It came for you._

Arya can see that the front of the letter has been opened and resealed. She rips it again and two notes fall out, both in a familiar large hand.

_Hot Pie: I know this is odd, but can you send this to Arya? I don’t know how to get a hold of an owl over the summer._

Arya’s hands tremble a bit. It’s a letter from Gendry. He’s sent Hot Pie a letter through the muggle mail, knowing that as a half-blood, Hot Pie would be able to use both muggle and wizarding means of communication. 

Arya unfolds the second, longer piece of paper.

_Dear Arya,_

_I hope Hot Pie gets this letter to you. I asked for his address on the train, but it was hard to understand everything he said — he had a chocolate frog in his mouth_.

_I heard about your dad. I’m so sorry, Arya. I wish I had something better to say. People said that to me for ages after my mum died — “I’m so sorry for your loss” — and I always thought it was shit. Such a stupid thing to say. What good does being sorry do? But I guess I see why they say it now, because what else can you really say?_

_Sorry, this letter was supposed to be nicer than this._

_I just wanted to say that if you want to throw rocks at me when we get back to Hogwarts, we can do that as much as you want. Or not at all, if that’s what you want. People always told me grief comes in different forms. I don’t know what your form is, but I always liked hitting stuff. Thought you might, too._

_I’ll see you when school gets back, yeah?_

_Your friend,_

_Gendry_

She doesn’t write him back, but she folds the letter and puts it under her pillow that night. She falls into a peaceful, dreamless sleep for the first time all summer.

—

Arya’s return to school goes about as well as she expected. Her friends are both annoyed by her lack of response over the summer and concerned for her wellbeing. She waves them off.

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “Honestly. I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your letters, but I’m all right.”

They don’t seem convinced, but they let her be. They quickly fall into old patterns, and Arya is torn about how to feel. She wants things to be normal again, but the usual routines highlight the new gap in her life. She starts coming intentionally late to breakfast, missing the arrival of the morning owls. It’s easier to face the fact that her father will never again send her a letter if she pretends that no one gets letters any more. Mycah says nothing about her change in habits, and always saves her a piece of toast.

They have a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, an enormous man with a terrible scar across half his face. Headmaster Mormont had introduced him as Professor Sandor Clegane during the Welcome Feast and the Great Hall had exploded in whispers.

“Sandor _Clegane_? Like Gregor Clegane, the White Walker? What the hell is Mormont playing at?”

All of Arya’s worries that their new Defense teacher was working with the Mountain were undone during their first class.

“You’ve all heard of my cunt of a brother, Gregor,” Professor Clegane says gruffly. 

The shock of the crude word silences them. Arya had never even heard an adult say it out loud before. 

“Well, I hate him more than the rest of you, so that’s that. Get out your wands, we’re fighting off Hinkypunks today.”

As thrilled as Arya is about using her wand again, she quickly loses interest in the class. Week after week, Professor Clegane — who most students had taken to calling “The Hound” behind his back due to his dog-like face — brings in several dark creatures. Arya wants to learn to fight dark wizards, not some stupid hobgoblins. She turns in half-hearted essays and stares out the window during classes.

“Stark, a word,” Professor Clegane barks after class one rainy afternoon. 

Mycah shoots her a worried look over his shoulder, but scuttles off when Professor Clegane glares at him.

Arya waits, digging the toe of her shoe against a desk.

“Well?” he says.

“Well, what?” 

She knows insolence won’t be tolerated, but she can’t bring herself to care. What does it matter if she spends her evening in detention?

“I’ve heard things about you, Stark,” he says, ignoring her outburst.

Arya frowns, but says nothing.

“Your friend Mycah mentioned you were good at Stunning.”

“So?”

“So, why don’t you give a damn in this class? Seems like you want to defend yourself.”

“I do,” answers Arya honestly. “But all this stuff is stupid.”

“Stupid?” Professor Clegane frowns, crossing his arms.

“Well, yeah. It’s not like I’m going to go looking for Grindylows, is it? I want to protect myself against dark wizards, not weird creatures that only live in swamps.”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” says Professor Clegane testily, “that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named might take advantage and employ the use of dark creatures?”

Arya stays silent. This had not occurred to her.

“And has it ever occurred to you,” Professor Clegane continues, his voice practically a snarl, “that dark creatures might be much more common than those dark wizards you’d like to fight? Or that the spells to repel most creatures would work just as well on wizards?”

Arya flushes in embarrassment, but she does not apologize. Professor Clegane waits for her to speak, but she stays silent.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Your last four essays were abysmal. You need to make them up.”

“When are they due?” She thinks about the piles of homework she has for her new classes — Muggle Studies, Care of Magical Creatures, Ancient Runes — and all the Transfiguration practice she wanted to get in this week. She doesn’t have time to re-write all her homework.

“I’m not reading any more bloody essays,” grumbles Professor Clegane. “You want to make it up, you show me what you can do.”

Arya stares at him, confused.

“You’ll meet me here twice a week for the next three weeks and prove to me you know what you’re doing. You can start tonight — I’ve got to put that Grindylow into a new tank and you’re going to help subdue it.”

The extra lessons are exhausting, and she usually leaves with a few scrapes and scratches from fighting off strange creatures. He even makes her handle ones they haven’t discussed in class, creatures she knows that the fourth and fifth years are supposed to be dealing with. But she doesn’t stop attending. Even when her supposed punishment period is up, she heads to Professor Clegane’s office. 

She tells herself its to help hone her skills. Clegane has a point: most of the spells she uses are just as harmful to wizards as magical creatures, and she certainly has more jinxes in her repertoire now. But there is a small part of her that enjoy’s Professor Clegane’s company, not that she would ever admit it to anyone. He’s rude and abrasive, and insults her more often than not. But she never forgets that he was the only professor to really notice that she had stopped caring about her work.

—

Thanks to Professor Unella’s departure, Jon’s Quidditch ban has been lifted and the Gryffindor Quidditch team is back to its full strength. This means that Arya isn’t needed any more, which only stings a little. At least she still has Gendry to play Quidditch with; he insists they practice at least once a week.

The practices have a different tone now. Arya is more reckless, swooping into steep dives and tight twists that she would not have attempted before. Part of it is experience — working with Gendry has certainly increased her skill — but part of it is just tempting fate. She wants to see just how far she can push herself before she is afraid. 

Only the strange thing is, she doesn’t feel any fear. She doesn’t really feel _anything_ beyond the slap of cold wind in her face and the ache of her flexing muscles. There’s no reason to be cautious anymore, so she isn’t. 

Gendry had tried to call off their practice a half hour ago, but Arya waved him off. It has been a long week — extra Defense sessions with Clegane, late nights with her Ancient Runes textbook — so she’s already a little tired, which is probably why she doesn’t notice the Bludger until it’s too late.

Gendry has never actually managed to hit her before, and in the instant before she slams into the earth, she realizes why. Gendry had never actually aimed for _her_ before, but rather the space next to her. She had been unfocused, and uncharacteristically drifted to the left, right into the path of the oncoming Bludger. It had struck her in the back with such force that she had been thrown from her broom and plummeted ten feet.

There is a sickening _CRACK_ as she lands, and this time it isn’t the sound of Gendry’s bat. Sharp pain spreads through her left shoulder and down her arm, blossoming across her chest and into her ribs.

Gendry is on the ground in a flash.

“Arya! Gods, I… I didn’t mean to… are you alright?”

“Fine,” grunts Arya, lying through her teeth. She pulls herself to her feet and sways on the spot. “I just need to…”

But the rest of her sentence dies away as the world goes black. 

There are flashes of the next few minutes in between fainting spells. She regains consciousness enough to notice that she’s rather close to Gendry’s face, which is white as a sheet, before the pain knocks her out cold. The next time she wakes with a painful jolt, she realizes that Gendry is carrying her. She’s roused again when he opens the doors to the hospital wing, and when Maester Luwin prods her shoulder painfully.

She’s not sure how long she’s been out when she comes to in the Hospital Wing. The pain is somewhat dulled, and she’s propped up on several large pillows. Gendry sits in an armchair next to her, staring at the wall with a horrified expression. His face is still pale and his eyes are rimmed with red.

She fidgets, trying to get comfortable on the pillows. Gendry notices her movements and starts.

“Here,” he says, holding out a large goblet to her. “Maester Luwin said you have to drink this. You passed out before he could give it to you.”

The liquid inside smells awful, but the taste isn’t too bad if she doesn’t breathe in. She drains it as quickly as possible and sets it back down, wincing a little as her shoulder is jostled. She can feel Gendry watching her and feels annoyance mounting.

“Why are you still here?” she asks, glaring at the ceiling. She’s embarrassed; not only had he knocked her off her broom, but he’d had to carry her up here. Not to mention that she had fainted half a dozen times along the way.

Gendry rises slowly out of his chair, looming over her. She looks away, but Gendry doesn’t move.

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” he says slowly. “It was an accident.”

“I know that,” she spits. “And I’m all right, so you can go. It’s fine.”

“It’s not bloody _fine_!” Gendry shouts. 

Arya blinks and turns back to face him. She knew Gendry had a bit of a temper, but it was rarely directed at her. Her blank appraisal of him only seems to incense him further.

“You could have _died_ , ‘Arry. And for what? You’ve been flying like a maniac lately, and I let you do it — thought it would help clear your head — but all you’ve done is push yourself too far, and you got hit! You would have _never_ let that Bludger hit you if we stopped when I said we should!”

As the pain in her shoulder dissipates, Arya feels the situation come into focus. She takes in Gendry’s angry expression — his pale cheeks, his red, watery eyes, his hair that looks as if it’s been tugged in twenty directions. 

“You were afraid.”

Gendry flushes.

“Bloody hell, Arya,” he whispers hoarsely. “Of course I was afraid. I thought I _killed_ you.”

“You didn’t though.”

“Barely.”

He sinks down onto the bed next to her, shoulders slumped. They sit in silence for a long time before he draws a shaky breath to speak.

“After… after my mum died, I felt alone.”

Arya watches him as he picks at a loose thread on the sheets. She has never heard his voice sound so small.

“It just felt like I didn’t have anyone on my side, y’know? I got shipped off to the orphanage, no family to speak of and I was… I was lonely. I felt like I didn’t have anyone on my team. I got mad a lot. Hit a bunch of the other kids. They told me no one was ever going to adopt me, but I didn’t _want_ to get adopted. I already had a mum. I didn’t need a new one. So what if my mum was dead?”

Arya shuffles around a bit on the bed, bringing her knees to her chest. She pivots so she’s seated next to him. She wants to lean on him, provide some sort of physical comfort, but she’s not sure if it’s the right thing to do. Gendry looks up and meets her eyes.

“I know it’s been a rough time for you, and I know you’ve got your own family and all that, but I wanted… I want you to know that I’m on your team. You’re not alone, like I was. I just… didn’t know how to say it.”

A trembling migrates up her arms and into her chest. She feels her newly healed shoulder shaking and then she’s burying her face in her knees, sobbing. Horrible choking noises escape her throat as she cries, her limbs jerking with the force of her sobs. It goes on and on — she’s not sure the last time she’s cried like this, if she’s _ever_ cried like this — but Gendry stays next to her. He wraps one of his strong arms around her and closes the gap between them. She leans into his shoulder and hot tears soak his robes.

When the shaking subsides, she pulls away, furiously wiping her face. She peeks at Gendry’s face and is surprised that his eyes still look red and watery. She wonders if he was crying, too.

Embarrassed, Arya lets her feet hang over the side of the bed and stares down at them as they dangle.

“Thanks,” she manages to croak out, avoiding Gendry’s gaze.

“Yeah,” he grunts just as hoarsely.

They sit in silence for a long time. After a while, Arya realizes their hands are just a hair’s breadth apart. If she focuses, she can feel the heat emanating from his hand. She could do it, just reach out and…

Her fantasy of holding Gendry’s hand is interrupted as the door to the Hospital Wing is thrown wide open. Arya and Gendry jump apart.

“Arya, what happened?” 

It’s Mycah, looking frazzled. 

“We were supposed to meet in the library ages ago!” he adds.

“So the first place you come looking for me is the Hospital Wing?”

“Of course not. I checked the Quidditch pitch first, and your broom was just lying on the ground.”

As he approaches, Arya realizes he has two brooms thrown over his shoulder: hers and Gendry’s. 

Arya quickly explains what had happened, glossing over the fact that Gendry had knocked her off her broom. Gendry stares guiltily at his shoes as she recounts the story, even though they both know it’s more her fault than his.

Maester Luwin lets Arya leave the Hospital Wing on the condition that she goes straight to bed. Mycah assures the older wizard that he will personally escort Arya back to their common room, and they set out with Gendry across the castle. 

When they part ways at the foot of the staircase to Gryffindor Tower, Arya gathers her courage and places a hand on Gendry’s arm.

“Thanks, Gendry,” she says. 

He looks at her hand, surprised. They’re not very physically affectionate friends — today had been the first time they had ever done anything other than shake hands — but he smiles at her.

“I’ll see you Tuesday, then? Only if you’ve gotten plenty of rest,” he adds hastily, looking alarmed at Mycah’s warning glare.

“Tuesday,” she says, and reluctantly pulls her hand away.

After Mycah marches her over to the girl’s dormitory, Arya takes her time readying herself for bed. She knows the second she lies down, she’ll fall asleep. Instead, she takes a long shower and wishes she could remember more clearly what it had felt like to be carried in Gendry’s arms.

—

By the end of November, she’s managed to enact another ritual with Gendry: Thursday nights in the library. They happen to meet by chance, and he quietly shares a table with her and Mycah when there are no other spots open. The first two times they sit entirely in silence, but on the third week, Arya musters up the courage to say something.

“I need your help,” she whispers when Mycah goes off to the bathroom.

Gendry raises his eyebrows. Arya slides him her Charms homework, and Gendry’s lip curls upwards.

“Oh, I remember this,” he says, pulling the book towards him. “Reflective charms. They’re really tricky if you haven’t gotten transluency charms down yet.”

Arya sinks a little in her chair.

“Don’t worry, I can help.” 

He scoots his chair around to sit next to her and starts reviewing the basics. Mycah reappears a moment later.

“Oh, thank goodness. We couldn’t figure these charms out at all. I told Arya we should ask you ages ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Are you going to help, or not?” spits Arya, horrified that she’s starting to blush. She hates it when people know more than her, like how Sansa used to lord it over her that she could do magic when Arya couldn’t yet.

“Of course I’ll help,” says Gendry, ignoring Arya’s outburst. 

Arya is relieved. This is the advantage of having Hufflepuff friends.

Once she masters reflective charms — Gendry was right, once she could turn her textbook translucent, making it reflective was a piece of cake — she keeps asking him for help. Professor Tarth is a good teacher, but Arya stumbles a bit in Charms, and she’d rather ask Gendry for help anyway. 

As a bonus, Gendry seems to dislike Transfiguration, Arya’s favorite subject, and sometimes she gets to try to help him. She certainly doesn’t know any more than Gendry does, but she helps him practice anyway, and sometimes she even succeeds in doing the spells herself. Gendry seems to have a particularly hard time with Self-Transfiguration. He’s so annoyed that Arya manages to change her own eyebrows a shocking white-blonde within three tries that he almost leaves the library in a huff. Arya turns his eyebrows a matching blonde, forcing him to stay until he can fix them. He does eventually, and he begrudgingly thanks her. Arya tries not to smile too wide.

—

On her fourteenth birthday, Arya skives off all her classes and spends the day outside. She’s lucky; it’s clear and bright without a cloud in the sky. It’s still bitterly cold, but she tucks herself away from the wind up in the Quidditch stands, and she’s managed to charm a flame into a jar to keep her warm.

Gendry finds her there late in the afternoon, a bag thrown over his shoulder and a broom in his hand.

“Fancy a match?”

Arya shakes her head. She’s spent the day watching the breeze ripple through the trees of the Forbidden Forest, and she very much intends to keep her vigil until the sun sets.

Gendry seems unperturbed by her refusal and sits next to her, flicking several new flames to life around them. Arya raises an eyebrow.

“Fuelless Flames,” he explains. “The wood won’t catch on fire.”

They sit for a half hour as the feeble winter light lowers in the sky. Arya, having sat in the cold all day, feels a pang of hunger and her stomach lets out a loud growl. Still, she has no desire to go back to the Great Hall to eat.

As if reading her mind, Gendry opens his bag and pulls out two large sandwiches. Arya raises an eyebrow.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he says, extending the sandwich to her.

“How did you… how did you know I would want to stay out here?”

“Lucky guess,” he shrugs. “After my mum died, I hated my birthday. Still wanted the cake though. Don’t worry, I got some of that from the kitchens, too.”

They eat their sandwiches in silence. Arya can only finish half of hers. There’s a lump in her throat that makes it hard to swallow. She’s not sure what exactly makes her want to cry: the absence of her father, or the fact that Gendry seems to understand exactly how horrible the absence is.

“Happy birthday, Arya.” He hands her a chocolate frog, just like he had the year before. 

“When’s your birthday?” she demands. She had forgotten to get him anything last year, and it makes her stomach roil with guilt.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s just a stupid chocolate frog.”

“It’s going to be your seventeenth birthday, yeah?”

“It’s not a big deal, ‘Arry…”

“It’s my birthday wish,” she declares. “Tell me when yours is.”

Gendry glares at her, but acquiesces. “April 16th.”

Arya nods and swallows her chocolate frog.

—

“Remember last year when Jon’s interview in _The Quibbler_ came out?” she says, slamming her book bag down on the library table next to Gendry.

Gendry, engrossed in his Care of Magical Creatures essay, barely looks up. “‘Course I do. It was all anyone could talk about.”

“Remember how people would charm their papers so they looked like regular pieces of parchment?”

“Yes…”

“Could you teach me how to do that?”

“What for?”

“Seems useful,” she shrugs, looking away. She’s not exactly lying, but she doesn’t want to tell Gendry why she wants to learn the spell. He gives her a long look and eventually shoves his essay to the side.

“Fine. But if I get bitten by a manticore, it’s your fault.”

Over the next two months, she makes a habit of asking Gendry to teach her new charms. He stops asking why and eventually just puts his homework aside as soon as he sees her. He teaches her how to waterproof an object, how to cause it to glow in the dark with a simple tap, how to insert a compass and align it with the cycles of the moon. It takes a while, but Arya manages to employ every single charm and a few transfiguration spells before her project is complete.

Arya visits the Hufflepuff common room for the first time on the evening of April 16th. It’s a Saturday, and Gendry’s friends have arranged a party in honor of his birthday. It’s quite a good turnout — most of the members of last’s years Mormont's Army, the entire Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and pretty much every other Hufflepuff student from third to seventh year are in attendance. Gendry Waters, it seems, is quite well-liked. 

Arya watches him. He seems a little embarrassed by the attention, but pleased nonetheless. Everyone has something nice to say about him — a time Gendry helped them with their homework, or gave them Quidditch advice, or helped carry their books for them when they were running late. 

As much as it warms Arya’s heart, she can’t help but feel a little jealous. A part of her had always assumed that it had been she alone who had recognized Gendry’s value. But here was proof that everyone had long agreed with her: Gendry was kind and smart and so very _fit_ , giggled all the Hufflepuff girls. 

Arya feels her heart sink a little. Gendry was turning seventeen, an adult in the wizarding world. She was just barely fourteen, an untrained witch who (hopefully) still hadn’t reached her full height. She has tried to put aside the fact that she fancied Gendry, but it stings to remember that she was so far beneath him in many ways.

Still, Arya Stark is not a coward. She may not be foolish enough to confess her feelings to her friend, but she is going to show him how much she valued their friendship. If only the crowd would die down, she would get her chance.

The party starts to dwindle as curfew approaches. Arya has to be careful. She doesn’t want to get a detention for wandering the halls too late, but she also doesn’t want to give Gendry his present in front of all these people either. Jon and Robb had gone back to the Gryffindor common room without her ages ago. She was going to have to run if she wanted to make it back in time.

Gendry appears beside her, clutching a butterbeer.

“Thanks for coming,” he says sheepishly. “I didn’t think there would be so many people.”

“Of course there are a lot people,” she says, looking up at him. His eyes seem even more blue than usual. “Everybody likes you.”

Gendry reddens, which makes Arya blush. She fumbles with the gift in her pocket and holds it out to him.

“Here.”

Gendry looks startled.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” he protests. “Really, ‘Arry…”

“Just open it, stupid.”

Gendry stares at the gift, then hastily rips off the paper. Inside is a simple muggle watch. He looks up at her, curious.

“It’s wizarding tradition,” she explains, blushing again. “When you’re seventeen, your family gives you a watch. Since you don’t… I mean… I didn’t think anyone else would get you one, so… I know you don’t normally wear a watch anyway…”

Gendry turns the watch over in his hands. His finger grazes the face of the watch and it lights up. He freezes.

“This… this is why you wanted me to teach you those charms!”

“Yes,” she says as he goggles at her. “I thought it’d be best to have a muggle watch — some of the wizarding ones look really odd — and this way you can still blend in with muggles if you want. But I gave it all the regular wizarding features. Well, almost. I couldn’t figure out how to engrave it without messing up the waterproofing charm. You’d think that would be easy, but it kept turning orange for some reason, so…” 

She trails off, wringing her hands behind her back. 

Gendry’s expression is blank for a long moment. Then he straightens and hands her the watch.

“I can’t accept it.”

Her heart sinks to her feet.

“Oh,” she stammers. “If you don’t like it…”

“I do like it,” he says quickly. “But it’s too nice. You shouldn’t have spent so much on me.”

Arya pulls a face.

“The watch was ten quid, Gendry.”

He pulls the watch back to him, surprised.

“Really?”

“Yeah. It only looks nice because of that reflective charm you taught me. And I transfigured it a little to make it rounder. Oh, and the strap was some sort of plastic, so I transfigured that, too.”

“Must’ve taken you ages.”

Arya shrugs. “You helped me. You basically made your own present.”

Gendry shakes his head.

“This is… this is the nicest gift anyone has ever given me.”

Arya’s heart pounds against her ribcage. Gendry is gazing down at her, blue eyes shining.

“Thanks, ‘Arry. Really, this is… I love it.”

He looks away and quickly wraps the watch around his wrist. Arya can’t help the grin on her face.

“Happy birthday, Gendry.”

They smile at each other. The moment seems frozen, glowing and perfect, until a large grandfather clock in the corner strikes ten. Arya’s smile fades.

“Bollocks, I’m late.”

“Take the passage along the east wing,” advises Gendry. “It’s the farthest from the Professor’s Lounge, so it’s usually the last place they look.”

Arya hurries over to the portrait hole and climbs down.

“Happy birthday!” she calls back as she speeds away.

She makes it back to Gryffindor Tower undetected and goes straight to bed. She lies awake for a long time, thinking about the smile on Gendry’s face.

—

Spring arrives at Hogwarts, and Arya can almost consider herself happy before everything goes sideways again.

Arya had followed the year’s Quidditch matches as rabidly as the rest of the Gryffindor students. An early victory in the season against Slytherin had been vital, especially given that they had been flattened by Hufflepuff the following match. Jon had been distracted and gotten knocked out by one of Gendry’s Bludgers, and the Hufflepuff seeker had caught the Snitch in the chaos. Gendry had apologized for a week afterwards, but Jon had waved him off. These things happened on the pitch. Robb had taken a bit more time to come around, but Arya had forced them to all shake hands and move on with it.

The rest of the matches had meant that the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match the first week of May would be the key to the Quidditch Cup. Robb had been putting the team through their paces for weeks, and it seemed nothing could go wrong.

But then Jon had hexed Ramsay Bolton half to death, and suddenly Gryffindor was out a seeker.

The story went that Jon had come across Ramsay Bolton — who he had suspected all year had joined the White Walkers and was on a mission for the Night King himself — and Ramsay, furious at the interruption, was about the hex Jon with an Unforgivable Curse. Jon had just reacted on instinct, and had made the unfortunate mistake of using an experimental spell he had only heard of before. Ramsay had suffered a great deal of blood loss, but would make a full recovery. Still, Jon’s attack on Ramsay had resulted in two week’s worth of detentions, including the day of the Quidditch Final.

As much as Arya enjoys playing Seeker for the Gryffindor team, she’d really rather stop doing it because Jon has gotten himself into a massive amount of trouble.

By the end of the week, she’s sore and exhausted and days behind on her homework. Robb is half-mad with stress, and when he approaches Arya in the common room the night before the final match with yet another strategy session, Arya is too tired to stop him.

Mycah, on the other hand, is practically vibrating with energy.

“Enough!” he shouts, surprising Robb. “Arya, you need to go to bed this instant and you—” he rounds on Robb, who is almost a foot taller than him— “leave it be. Arya won the Cup for you last year, she’s certainly capable of doing it again, but you’ve got to let her sleep!”

Secretly, Arya thinks Robb’s strategy of exhausting her has actually worked in her favor. She sleeps for hours longer than usual, and when she finally wakes around noon, she feels well-rested and only a little bit achy. The match is played in the late afternoon, and the setting sun makes the gold on the Gryffindor robes glimmer.

The match is brutal and breathless. The Ravenclaw chasers are well-matched with Gryffindor. What they lack in strength, they make up for in speed. Ygritte bats away shot after shot, and Gryffindor slowly pulls ahead as the minutes tick on. Neither Arya nor the Ravenclaw Seeker catch a glimpse of the Snitch for the first hour — the duel is entirely between the Chasers.

Arya turns for yet another lap when a winking catches her eye. Inches from the ground below, the Snitch glints in the last rays of sunshine. Arya dives.

There’s no contest. The Ravenclaw Seeker is on the opposite end of the pitch, and Arya is already pulling up from her dive when he notices her. The crowd roars as she rises high in the air, the Snitch struggling against her closed fist.

The team swarms around her, pulling her from side to side as they hug her in turns. They descend, a knot of yelling, sweaty players, to meet their fans on the field. Robb scoops Arya up onto his shoulders like he used to when she was six.

“My sister, the match winner!” he shouts with pride as the rest of Gryffindor House screams their approval. Even Sansa and Bran, draped in their Ravenclaw robes and scarves, battle through to give her a congratulatory hug.

Arya rides Robb’s shoulders back up to the castle — he refuses to put her down, despite her protests — and they merrily make their way towards Gryffindor Tower. They cross paths with a group of Hufflepuffs. Half of the crowd wears a few festive Ravenclaw sigils, and the other half cheer and wave on Gryffindor. A grinning face catches Arya’s eye.

“Well done, ‘Arry!” shouts Gendry. He tosses something at her and she catches it instinctively.

“Where did you get a Gryffindor scarf?” she shouts back over the crowd.

“It’s yours! Your friend Mycah let me borrow it for the match — figured you’d be too busy to need it.” 

The crowd is sweeping them in opposite directions, and Gendry shouts a last “Congratulations!” at her before he disappears. Arya winds the scarf around her hands and catches Sansa’s curious gaze below her. She reddens and looks forward, trying to join the singing Gryffindors mid-song.

—

With the Quidditch season done, the last of the school year is devoted to exams, which Arya dreads. She is, as usual, excelling in Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts, and she’s done quite well in Muggle Studies, but she’s neglected History of Magic and Ancient Runes. Even in classes where she’s doing fine, there is a mountain of homework and revising to be done.

The end of exams is a relief, and Gryffindor House celebrates one last time for the year. Arya notices Jon’s absence, but she’s not too surprised. He’s had plenty of meetings during the evenings throughout the year, and knowing Jon, an extra detention is always a possibility. She puts Jon out of her mind and plays round after round of Exploding Snap with Mycah, laughing hard enough to make their sides hurt when they both singe off their eyebrows.

Arya wakes to the sounds of shouting drifting up from the Gryffindor common room. It’s early enough that it’s possible the shouting is still from the party the night before, but as she stumbles out to investigate, it’s clear that the celebratory mood has evaporated.

Headmaster Mormont is dead.

Gossip circulates through the school like wildfire, and Arya can hardly keep up with all of it. Lommy is the best source of news she has all morning: he had overheard some the older Slytherin students discussing Ramsay Bolton helping White Walkers enter the school before he took down Mormont himself. This shouldn’t shock Arya — Ramsay was always a sadistic bastard, and if anyone fit the bill of White Walker, it would be him — but she can’t help but be afraid that Headmaster Mormont is gone. Hogwarts had been safe from the Night King with Mormont at the helm, and Mormont had been brought down by one of his own students.

The only other fact that everyone could agree on was that somehow Jon Snow was involved in all of this. Many people claimed that Jon had witnessed the event. A few idiots even speculated that Jon had _helped_ Ramsay, as if that wasn’t the most ridiculous thing Arya had ever heard. Arya thought the look on Jon’s face that morning had said enough: he had been there when Mormont had fallen, and he had been powerless to stop it.

To make matters worse, one of the White Walkers allowed into the castle had been Gregor Clegane, The Mountain. He had his reputation as a ruthless killer, but he was especially feared because he was a werewolf. As the professors battled to chase out the White Walkers, The Mountain had come face to face with The Hound, his brother. The hatred between them was thick, and a particularly nasty taunt had lingered after the battle. It was, if possible, even _more_ hotly discussed than Professor Mormont’s death.

Professor Sandor Clegane was a werewolf.

As soon as she hears this rumor, Arya drags her friends with her straight to Professor Clegane’s office. She pounds on the door for several minutes before it swings open.

“Will you stop that?” snarls an angry Professor Clegane. He looks more like a hound than ever.

“Is it true?” Arya demands, ignoring the nervous looks of her friends. “You’re a werewolf?”

“‘Course it’s true,” he spits at her. “Look at my face. What else could have made these scars?”

Arya peers into the classroom and notices it is half empty. There is a suitcase open on Professor Clegane’s desk.

“Are you leaving?”

Professor Clegane looks at her incredulously.

“People don’t want a werewolf teaching their kids.”

“But you’re the best Defense teacher we’ve ever had!” squeaks Shireen.

“And you’ve never hurt any of us, and you’ve been here a whole year,” adds Hot Pie.

Professor Clegane glowers at them, but his shoulders sag.

“Mormont was the one keeping me here,” he admits. “He’s dead now, and people will want to know their children are safe from people like me.”

“But no one is safe anymore!” says Mycah. “Not with You-Know-Who and the White Walkers coming back.”

Professor Clegane lets out a sound between a grunt and a growl. 

“Half the people at this school think I’m in league with them because of my cunt of a brother.” 

He doesn’t seem to notice they all flinch at the curse.

“Is he the one who…” Lommy makes a vague motion towards Professor Clegane’s face and goes bright red when Clegane glares at him.

“Yes,” he says curtly. “Now get out.”

They each try pleading with him to stay once more — he may have been a gruff, unforgiving teacher, but they really had learned loads — but he all but throws them out of his office. Defeated, they slink back towards the Great Hall, where black banners have been unfurled. There was a funeral planned in two days time before the Hogwarts Express would return them to London.

“What now?” asks Mycah as they huddle together.

No one can think of what to say, and silence falls.

Arya doesn’t know what comes next, but it can’t be good.


	4. The Red Summer

It’s the last week of July before Arya musters up the courage to suggest it.

“What if we invited Gendry to stay for the summer?”

She feigns nonchalance, absently picking at her nails. She can feel the weight of Jon’s eyes on her.

“You want to invite a Gendry — a boy — to stay over?”

Arya rolls her eyes. 

“Who cares if he’s a boy?”

“Mum will.”

“He’s our friend.”

“Still…”

Arya huffs angrily, pivoting to leave the room when Jon stops her.

“Why do you want to invite _him_? You’ve got other friends.”

Arya shrugs, trying to hide her expression from Jon. 

“He’s stuck at that stupid orphanage for the rest of the summer,” she says. “I thought it’d be nice if he could stay somewhere… I dunno. Somewhere less grim.”

Jon nods, but says nothing. Later that evening, he ropes Robb into asking Catelyn if Gendry can come stay. Arya gives Jon the tightest hug he can stand before rushing off to send a letter.

Three days later, her owl, Nymeria, soars into the kitchen bearing a letter written in Gendry’s large hand. Arya feels her heart pound in her chest.

_Hi ‘Arry,_

_Thanks for inviting me to stay with you. I’d really like to come — your backyard sounds brilliant for Quidditch — but I don’t want to cause problems. I know maybe it’s not a big deal for your mum to have another mouth to feed, but I promise, I’ll pull my weight. I’m not much for cleaning spells, but I can help out by hand. They make us do that a lot here at the orphanage. I’m pretty good at yard work, so maybe I can play Quidditch in the morning with you and then work in the afternoon? I want to make sure I earn my keep._

_-Gendry_

_P.S. Thanks again for the watch for my birthday — I hadn’t realized you set a burglar alarm on it. One of the snotty teens here tried to nick it from me and it bit him. Took a bit of work for me to convince him it was all in his head, but he’s not going to try to steal it again any time soon._

Arya writes him back at once.

_Gendry:_

_Don’t be stupid, we’re not having you over to be some kind of servant. I mean, we’ve all got chores, but you can skive off with me — Mum’s pretty much given up on me ever having a clean room again. Although you’ll be sharing with Jon or Robb — I recommend Jon because Robb is even worse about picking up dirty socks than I am._

_Can you Apparate here? How about the morning of Saturday the 8th?_

_-A_

She spends the next few days practically buzzing in anticipation. She actually manages to clean her room, polishes her broomstick twice, and finishes all of her coursework so that she can devote all her time to Gendry’s visit. 

The day before Gendry is set to arrive, Sansa barges into Arya’s room without knocking.

“Out with it,” she says, plopping herself down on Arya’s bed in a most unladylike manner.

“First of all, it’s rude to enter without knocking.”

“Arya, you’ve never knocked on a door once in your life.”

“Second,” she continues, ignoring Sansa’s comment, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come off it. You’ve been acting absolutely mad all week.”

“You always think I’m acting strange, remember?”

“I don’t think this is strange, actually. I understand perfectly well why you’re acting this way.”

Nothing sets Arya off like Sansa being smug.

“What are you talking about?” she growls.

“You made fun of me _all year_ when I liked Willas Sand. Told me I was being a right prat.”

“Well, you _were_.”

“And you’re not?”

Arya’s head rears back in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not stupid, Arya. I know you like Gendry.”

Arya’s face flushes red. The rush of embarrassment is quickly smothered by anger, and Arya jumps to her feet.

“Get out!”

Sansa, having dealt with years of Arya’s ire, looks amused by her sister’s outburst.

“You’re not denying it?”

“ _Get out!_ ”

Sansa rises, but instead of turning to leave, she fixes Arya with a serious look. She bites her lip before blurting, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have I teased you.”

She stares at Sansa, stunned. Sisters for fourteen years and Sansa has never once apologized to her. Sansa looks down at her shoes.

“I know we’re not… well, we don’t do sister things like talk about boys—” Arya can hardly suppress rolling her eyes—“but, well… if you ever wanted to… to talk about things…”

Arya feels something uncomfortable squirm inside her. She knows that this is an olive branch from Sansa, and Arya can’t deny that there is a part of her that wants to be close to her sister. They may not have much in common, but Arya still _wants_ to be liked. She’s just never known how, and it’s always so much easier to push people away than to face the fact that they don’t like her, or that she isn’t as good as Sansa. It’s easier to be angry than vulnerable.

“It’s not like that with Gendry,” she says finally. “We’re just friends.”

“All right,” says Sansa slowly. Arya can tell Sansa doesn’t believe her, but she’s grateful Sansa doesn’t press it.

Sansa turns back as she leaves Arya’s room.

“If you did fancy him — and I’m not saying you do—” she added quickly, seeing Arya’s face flush again. “At least you have better taste in boys than I do.”

Arya hides her grin and pulls out her broom to polish it one more time.

—

To calm her nerves about Gendry’s impending arrival, Arya decides to fly a few laps out in the yard. It’s well after dusk, but Arya knows the grounds behind her house so well, she doesn’t even need any moonlight to guide her path. 

She had begged off of going to see a muggle movie with Jon — one of his favorite summer pastimes — and she certainly hadn’t been interested in a dinner with Sansa and her friends. Even Bran and Rickon had disappeared for the evening. Arya suspected they were playing their usual game of hide-and-seek in the cellar. Bran was certainly too old for the game, but Rickon was still just seven, and had missed his siblings terribly; even Arya had indulged him by playing childish games once a week. Arya had briefly entertained the idea of asking Robb to fly with her, but he appeared deeply engrossed in writing a letter to Talisa, and Arya wanted to be alone with her thoughts anyway.

The evening is cool and dark, and Arya lazily loops around the makeshift Quidditch pitch. She holds silent debates in her head — best jinx if you’re in a tight spot, worst Quidditch player in the league, the merits of using Transfiguration versus Charms for disguises — when the sky brightens in an eerie, green glow. She stares into the darkness for a moment before she turns, and she sees the source of the light.

A green skull, ten feet high and five feet wide, shimmers above her house.

Arya plummets to the ground in time with her stomach. She hits the dirt hard and stumbles, tossing aside her broomstick as she races towards the house. A chant repeats in her head: _No, no, no, no no._

She can hear screaming as she approaches. Loud, angry voices are shouting, men’s voices she doesn’t recognize. She wants to cry out for her mother, for Robb, for Bran and Rickon, but she can’t give away her position, or theirs. She races closer as loud cracks sound around her. People are Apparating into their garden, but despite the glowing green skull, it’s too dark for Arya to see their faces. She’s unsure if they are friend or foe, so she slows her pace, slinking behind some bushes. If she can just find her brothers… Jon is still at the movies, and he turned seventeen a week ago. She can get Bran and Rickon to him, and he can perform enough magic to keep them safe.

There’s a scream of anguish, high and terrible, and Arya can only think of Robb the previous summer when their father died. Only this time, it’s her mother’s scream.

The sound is cut short by a flash of green light.

Several things happen in quick succession, although time seems to have slowed around her. Arya stands on shaky legs, turning to face her house. She’s right in front of the large windows of the sitting room. Several of the lights have been blown out, and half the room is shrouded in darkness. But there is no mistaking what she sees.

Robb lies motionless on the floor, a dark pool of blood like a halo around his head. His head is almost ripped from his body.

Catelyn Stark, wand still in hand, lies prone beside him. The force of the killing curse has left her splayed out, so that one arm lies in the pool of Robb’s blood, her free hand angled towards her firstborn son like a caress.

There are other bodies on the floor. Books from the shelves around litter the ground. Several hooded figures stand over the bodies of her mother and brother, and although she can only make out one face, she knows exactly who they are: Walder Frey, their neighbor of twenty years, and his sons.

Arya lifts her wand, a curse on the tip of her tongue, when a pair of large arms yank her back.

Arya jerks. Time falls back into place, and she sees the figures turn to run, the light of several curses combining and reflecting, destroying her home. There are White Walkers and members of Night’s Watch trading jinxes. A cacophony of noise assaults Arya’s ears. She kicks her legs, but she’s been lifted off the ground, dragged away from violence.

“Let me go!” she shouts, twisting and thrashing.

“Stop bloody moving,” growls a voice, and the shock of it actually causes her to pause. 

The Hound is carrying her away from her house. She cranes her head to see his scarred face, unkempt hair falling into his eyes. He’s made it halfway to the treeline before she resumes her resistance.

“Let me go!” she shouts again, elbowing his chest.

“You’ll get yourself bloody — _oof_ —killed. Will you stop — _fuck_ — hitting me?”

“Let me go! I can fight! I want to fight!”

“And what use will that be, eh? They’ve already killed your family — you’re not going to bring them back.”

He all but drops her to the ground behind her favorite oak tree. Her first instinct is to get up and run back to the house, but he grips her arm tightly and holds her back.

_They’ve already killed your family_.

The urge to deny the truth is strong, but the truth itself is stronger. Robb may have only been seventeen, but he was good at defensive spells. Catelyn’s specialty had been as a Herbologist, but she was as much a fighter as any Stark. There were four other dead bodies on the floor of the sitting room, and four still standing — it had taken eight people to kill Robb and Catelyn, but they were dead all the same.

“We’re looking for your brothers,” the Hound says, glancing towards the house. “And we know your sister is with her friends. She might be safe.”

“And Jon?”

The Hound gives her a long look. He’s never been one to mince words or lie, and there’s a small part of Arya that’s grateful he doesn’t try it now.

“Disappeared. Night’s Watch were supposed to keep an eye him, but he and his friends… they never came out of that muggle cinema. Odds are he’s on the run, and I don’t blame him.” 

He crouches down to her eye level, and gives her a searching look. 

"This is war now, you understand? People are going to die. _You_ are going to die unless you run right now.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re thirteen, girl.”

“Fourteen!”

“What’s the difference? You’ll get yourself killed, and what good will that do anyone?”

“They killed my father, my — my mother and… and Robb…” There are no tears in her eyes, but it’s hard to breathe. The pain is choking her, fear roiling in her gut.

“Aye, they did,” says the Hound, grabbing her arm. “And they won’t rest until every last Stark is dead and buried.”

Another scream echoes from the house. Arya feels her heart pound in her chest. She knows the Hound is right — if she fights back tonight, she will probably die.

The Hound must see something in her expression, because he loosens his hold on her arm and steps away. Shouts echo around them — the White Walkers are headed for the trees.

“Keep your head down and stay out of sight,” the Hound spits, shoving her back behind another set of trees. “Don’t move.”

The first of the White Walkers crashes into the forest and all hell breaks loose. Just seconds after Arya takes refuge behind a large bush, a body is hurled into a it, a large scorch mark on its back. Arya freezes — she’s never been so close to a dead body before — when it twitches to life. She scrambles backwards as the man rises to his feet. Half of the man’s face has been swollen by a stinging hex, but even his injured eye widens when he sees her.

“She’s here!” he shouts, his voice high and scratchy. “The Stark girl, she’s —”

The rest of his sentence is lost as he slams into the trunk of the tree behind. The force of Arya’s Stunning spell knocks him unconscious before he could finish, but the damage is done.

The White Walkers are coming for her. 

She can hear the pounding of their footsteps behind her as she races through the trees. There are shouts, but in the panic of it all Arya can’t hear what is being said. All she knows is that she can’t stop.

—

She runs for hours. By the time she stops, her feet are blistered and she’s never been more thirsty in her life. She has no idea where she is — one of the many nondescript villages in the surrounding countryside — but whether she’s north or south of where she started, she couldn’t say. The only thing she has with her is her wand and it’s as good as useless; the second she uses it, the Ministry can track her for using magic while underage, and Arya is certain that the Ministry can’t be trusted.

She is alone.

She keeps walking until dawn, and walks some more after that. A plan is fomenting in her head, and as the adrenaline seeps out of her, she weighs her options.

She has no money on her, muggle or magical, to get by. She has her wand, but she can’t use it. Her cloak is ripped and her jeans are muddied. She has no way of contacting any of her friends without putting them in danger. In fact, as long as she’s still alive, all her friends are in danger, even if they don’t know where she is.

Arya Stark has to die.

The plan takes three days to execute, and Arya has to force herself to be patient. Her first stroke of luck comes in the tiny village she’s found. There’s a pack of sullen teenage girls smoking in the park, complaining loudly to one another.

“‘E said it’s done wiv’ her, but I know ‘e’s gone back.”

“Why’s 'e bother wiv’ her anyway?”

“‘Cuz she’ll fuck him whenever he wants.”

“Fuckin’ prick. Me mum forces me to go on one holiday in bloody France wiv’ her, and ‘e gets angry I’m not around to have sex wiv’ 'im for a week.”

“Good bloody riddance.”

Arya waits for the girls to disperse and follows at a distance. The girl with the terrible boyfriend goes into a small house at the end of the road. There are no security cameras   
in the street — Arya had learned about those in Muggle Studies this year as part of an extra project on muggle weaponry and warfare. Her professor had thought her enthusiasm for the subject amusing; she had no idea it would come in so handy.

Arya spends her night sleeping in a nearby field. She wakes early to look through the bins behind the bakery. She finds a very stale loaf of bread, but it’s better than nothing. She eats it while she waits for the day to begin, and watches the sullen girl leave her house in a waitress uniform. Arya waits an hour and sees no sign of movement from within, so she creeps around the side yard and lets herself in. As she suspected, it’s unlocked. There are advantages to being in a small town.

Arya isn’t sure how much time she has, but she’s lucky again — the teenage girl is just as messy as Arya and has only recently returned from her trip. There’s a suitcase that’s practically exploded open in the center of her room, clothing strewn about haphazardly. Forgotten on top of the dresser, half-buried under spare change and a dog-eared book is Arya’s prize: a passport.

The girl is two years older than Arya, but just as pale and with dark features. Her hairstyle has changed since the photo was taken, but it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Arya pockets the passport and quietly lets herself out of the house, grabbing an apple and block of cheese on her way out. 

Arya knows the longer she stays in the village, the more attention she’ll attract, so she hops a muggle train to a larger city. Not London — too risky, someone might expect it — but Birmingham. Another stroke of luck occurs when the ticket inspector never visits her train car, and Arya can take another brief respite. 

She takes stock of her surroundings in the city, ignoring her aching feet. She’s thankful it’s a warm day; she had removed her cloak to avoid stares, but her plain jumper doesn’t offer much warmth.

From there, she engages in some petty crime. She finds a wealthy-looking, distracted man and picks his pocket. She sends a quiet thanks to Theon for teaching her this skill to annoy her brothers. She takes the cash and returns the wallet to the nearest police station.

“The cash was gone, but I thought I’d turn it in,” she says, shrugging. She’s praised for her good deed, and, seeing her hungry expression, they offer her a slice of pizza on her way out.

“It’s Nigel’s birthday,” they explain, giving her an extra slice after she wolfs down the first.

“Happy birthday,” she chokes out, mouth full. It’s Rickon’s birthday, too. She tries not to think about the fact that he is almost certainly dead, and he will never be eight years old.

Despite the cash in her pocket, she shoplifts some dark lipstick and eyeliner. She pays for the scissors, water bottle, and red hair dye.

As dusk settles, she makes herself comfortable in a secluded corner of a park. She’s not the only one sleeping rough, and she knows she has to be on the lookout — she could be robbed or worse in a place like this. She manages to wedge herself under a hedgerow for a fitful rest. It is past midnight when she wakes, and she sets to work.

There is a small fountain nearby, and Arya dunks the water bottle under the surface, filling it. She pours it over her head, trying her best to untangle her knotted hair with her fingers. She grabs the scissors and gets to work.

She rips open the dye package, thankful there is a pair of gloves included. She’s never done this before, and it’s difficult without a mirror. She’s sure there’s red dye all over the back of her neck, but she doesn’t particularly care about the mess. She uses her cloak to sop up the mess, and once the dye is rinsed into a dark pool of mud she’s made in the grass, she turns the scissors on the cloak as well. Once she’s finished, she tosses the remaining dye and scissors, along with half of the hair on her head, in the trash.

She treks back to the train station and turns left. She’s never been to Birmingham before, but she knows there’s a magical community in the city. She had noticed some odd behavior around here — a man wearing a long robe, a woman wearing shoes that seemed to emit a slight tinkling sound with every step, a child crying about a lost toad — and it seems she was right. She watches a tired-looking woman walk up to a bright purple gate and pull out a wand. With a small wave, the gate jumps open of its own accord. Muggles walking by seem completely oblivious. 

Arya takes a deep breath. This is the biggest risk she’s yet to take. She doesn’t know how long it will take for her wand to be tracked, or what’s waiting behind the door. But the longer she waits, the longer the wizarding world will think she’s alive. She has to do this.

The gate jumps open for her and Arya slips inside. It looks a bit like Diagon Alley, but less flashy and bright. She recognizes a few stores — there’s a Flourish and Blotts here, too, and even a Zonko’s — but she ignores these to find the first alley she can. It’s not as sinister as Knockturn Alley, but it will do. In fact, it’s even better than she could have planned: at the end of the lane, she can see a canal.

Arya has spent the past year reading every book she could about Dark Magic. There are plenty of spells to harm and to kill, but all of them usually result in a body being found. As much as she wants her plan to work, she has no intention of leaving a body behind, hers or someone she’s Transfigured to look like her. But there is one way to avoid all of that.

She carefully arranges her shredded cloak on the railing overlooking the canal. It’s not very deep or swift, but she supposes it will have to do. She grabs a bag of trash from the nearby rubbish bins and, facing away from the canal, goes to work.

She fires off jinx after jinx, increasing in ferocity. She alternates these with shield charms, scuffing the ground with her feet as she backs towards the railing. She leaves scorch marks on the ground leading up to her cloak. In the black of night, no one can see her as she lets out a terrified scream that stops short. She launches the rubbish into the canal and it lands with a splash. Neighbors are starting to rouse themselves in the darkness, and Arya has only a moment before someone spots her. 

She holds her wand to her heart and thinks of the day she went to procure it with her father. He had placed his warm hand on her shoulder then.

_“You’re going to do great things with this wand.”_

As it snaps in half in her hands, her heart breaks with it. She stomps her wand into the dirt and flees. Arya Stark forgets herself, and becomes no one.

—

She takes the first train to London, and then onto Paris. The passport inspector takes a long look at her choppy, poorly dyed hair and disheveled appearance. She’s bought a backpack to seem less suspicious, although surely the man looking at the x-ray machine must notice it’s almost empty.

“You got an adult with you?” the passport inspector asks.

“I’m sixteen,” she says, trying to make herself seem taller. “I’m meeting my aunt in Paris on holiday. My parents want me to practice my language skills.” She rolls her eyes as if bored, but she can feel a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck.

The passport inspector takes a swig of his coffee and makes a face.

“Fine, pass through.”

She rolls her eyes again for good measure and boards the train. It’s only once they arrive in Paris that she can breathe a sigh of relief.

She’s been to Paris before with her family. Catelyn and Sansa were particular fans, and they had dragged Arya along on plenty of “girl’s outings” that Arya had hated. Still, it had given her a good lay of the land, and as the August heat bears down on the city, Arya finds herself slipping into her new plan.

Now that Arya Stark is dead, she needs to find a way to survive.


	5. Cat of Uagadou

By September first, a girl who goes only by Cat appears on the steps of the famed school of Uagadou. She has no wand, no broomstick, no cauldron — nothing but the clothes on her back. Her hair is choppy and uneven, fried by weeks of dye and transfiguration. Her face is caked with makeup that doesn’t match her skin tone, which had steadily darkened as she moved south. 

When the professors ask her where she comes from, they detect a lilt of an unrecognizable accent, and they quickly abandon their questioning. Cat is not the first magical student to appear suddenly at their doors, and she is admitted without question. There are funds set aside for this sort of thing. Although Uagadou is the largest and one of the most ancient schools of magic, witchcraft has had to remain hidden in most parts of Africa for a long time. Children of muggleborn families have been disowned and left of the streets — or much worse — and even children of pure-bloods have been known to fall into trouble by causing accidental magic in the wrong place. Cat is just another one in the crowd.

Cat herself had suspected this might be the case, but this was just one of many reasons she came to Uagadou. After shedding her previous identity on the streets of Paris, she had faced several options. She had seriously considered the Hound’s parting words, and as loathe as she was to admit it, she really did not stand a chance against the White Walkers on her own. Her parents were dead, as was her older brother. Her cousin was on the run, and her sister and younger brothers missing. There was no way to go back for them without putting them all in danger. The only logical conclusion was to become more dangerous herself, and that could only be accomplished by honing her skills.

There were several magical schools dotted around the globe, and she contemplated all of them as she chewed over a cheap sandwich on the banks of the Seine. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were closest, but she immediately ruled these out. The headmasters of both schools had been to Hogwarts three years prior, and while she doubted very much they would recognize her, it seemed an unnecessary risk. Ilvermorny was an option, but security to travel to America was always tight — by muggle or by magical means — and probably too difficult to accomplish without raising flags. She rules out Castelobruxo — she has little need for their expertise in Herbology and Magizoology — and Mahoutokoro. The latter has more of an appeal with their excellent reputation for Quidditch, but she has to put such frivolous things behind her now. Koldovstoretz had a reputation of teaching advanced Dark magic, which certainly had its advantages, but in the end she settles on Uagadou. Getting to Uganda is more complicated than Russia, but she’s heard stories of Uagadou before. Wizards here can perform wandless magic and Transfiguration, especially Self-Transfiguration, is highly prized.

A few more wallets pilfered from absent-minded tourists and a modifications to her muggle passport with a stolen wand are enough to fund her circuitous route into the heart of Africa. She takes indirect routes — muggle and magical alike — but after a week she comes across a magical newspaper abandoned on a coffee table in Rabat. 

_ No Leads for Stark Deaths; Authorities Baffled _

_London, UK_

_Questions are mounting in the wake of the unsolved deaths and disappearances of several members of the Stark household. On the evening of Friday, August 7th, Catelyn Stark and her eldest son, Robb Stark, a seventh-year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, were found murdered in their home. The Dark Mark, the sigil of skull and spiral favored the Night King and his followers, hung above the house when authorities arrived. There were signs of a struggle throughout the house and grounds, although no suspects were apprehended. Anonymous sources from the Auror department admit that while alleged members of the White Walkers are suspected, there are no solid leads._

_The deaths of Catelyn and Robb Stark follow the death of Ned Stark, father of the Stark family, last summer. He died under mysterious circumstances in the Ministry of Magic following a break-in that remains unsolved. The reason for his presence in the Ministry at that time is still unclear._

_Further complicating the work of the authorities is the disappearance of Jon Snow, nephew and cousin of the deceased Stark family members, who was known to be living with the family. He is thought to be armed, and any sightings should be reported to the ministry at once._

_Three younger members of the Stark family are also missing: Arya Stark (14), Brandon Stark (12), and Rickon Stark (8). Any news about these individuals should also be reported._

_Story continues page A5_

It’s clear from the tone of the rest of the paper that the Ministry is slowly but surely coming under the control of the Night King and his followers. The girl who calls herself Cat reads the rest of the paper cover to cover, but finds no mention of Sansa Stark. Cat hopes Sansa has put her Ravenclaw brains to good use and found a safe place to hide. There are no other names she recognizes in the paper — no Gendry, Shireen, Mycah, Lommy, or Hot Pie — and she can only pray that this is for the best.

Finding a magical school is always a complex task, but Uagodou has a way of leading lost young witches and wizards to it. Tendrils of mist descend from the mountains, enveloping and tugging students upwards. The path upwards is steep and narrow, and so clouded that Cat can barely see her own feet. In another life, she might have been afraid. But Cat has no time for fear now, or perhaps fear has become so ingrained in her that she doesn’t know what it’s like _not_ to be afraid. Whatever the case, she arrives at the doorstep and is welcomed inside to eat and rest. Two days later, school begins, and the girl called Cat commences her fourth year of schooling.

—

It’s a rough start, but Cat thrives at Uagadou. 

Wandless magic is, unsurprisingly, difficult to control. The first few months are almost unbearable. Cat is constantly reprimanded for her failures. She is given extra work and extra lessons. The other students tease her and whisper behind her back. She jinxes them, but is counter-jinxed twice as badly; she spends all her energy on attack and leaves nothing to defend.

Her Transfiguration teacher, an aloof man named Jaqen H’gar, takes her under his wing. He is not particularly kind, but he teaches her to control her temper, to be patient. Her skill in Transfiguration comes in handy here; she remembers once spending hours fiddling with a watch, and she pictures it to steady herself. By Christmas, she has caught up to her peers and by summer she has lapped them. But she does miss the swish of a wand, even if her power and precision are just as good without.

Cat does not try to make friends, but she does not make enemies either. The students who teased her now ignore her, and she slips through the mist and shadows of the school. No one is quite sure where Cat hails from. There are weekly deliveries of papers from around the world: _The Daily Prophet_ , _The Quibbler_ , _The New York Ghost_ , _The Sydney Scourge_ , _The Johannesburg Chronicle_. On occasion there are papers from New Zealand, Jamaica, Kenya, and Canada. There are never any letters for her.

She eats most of her meals alone and spends most of her evenings hidden away in the library, reading ancient texts or changing the shape of her face with a wave of her hand. She is far ahead of her peers in Self-Transfiguration, but there’s still a block in her way: she can never truly change her face. A stubborn feature of herself — eye color, the shape of her chin, a dash of freckles — always lingers.

The longer Cat stays at Uagadou, the more she learns and the more she forgets. She can brew odorless poisons, but she cannot remember the scent of her father’s aftershave. She discovers new methods to camouflage herself, but the smiling faces of her brothers seem to blur in her mind. She creeps around the castle, quiet as a mouse, but the memory of her cousin’s laugh slips away from her.

Her fourth year of school passes, then her fifth. She’s allowed to stay over the summers inside the castle. She earns her keep by helping with the annual cleaning and renovation along with other students who have nowhere to go. Cat prefers it this way — she gets to keep using magic within the school grounds and she sinks further into her studies. By the end of her sixth year, there is little her professors have left to teach her. 

In the summer before her seventh year, Cat no longer needs to stay in the castle. She is seventeen now, an adult in the wizarding world. She still earns her keep by performing some chores around the grounds, but she sets out for days at a time: to Kampala and Nairobi, to the coast to see Mobasa and Dar es Salaam, east into the chaos of Kinshasa. Here she finds the pockets of wizardkind and learns of networks of Dark Magic. The Night King’s influence has slowly crept around the globe in the last three years, but these cities have their own problems. There are power-hungry people everywhere, those who construct mayhem and fear to achieve their ends. Cat finds herself in more than one duel, and although she gains a few new slashes and scars, she is always the last witch standing.

It is late evening in July when she kills for the first time. She’s gone north to Juba, a dangerous place these days in the wizarding world, but Cat is not afraid. She has heard of the warlocks who had instigated their rule over the local people, who tortured muggles for fun. She sets a trap like she has before, easily overpowering and jinxing the band of young men who have been terrorizing muggles, but two are stronger and faster than she expected. The first one comes too close, and although Cat intends to cast a spell, he grabs her wrist.

The smell is familiar to her, and she hears a sinister fizzing noise underneath the man’s screams. The smell turns acrid — burning flesh — and she sees the bloom of angry red welts from the place he had touched her. He falls to the ground, jerking wildly, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. 

The second man, enraged on behalf of his fallen comrade, charges her and this time he doesn’t need to touch her. Cat extends out a hand and a blast like lightning strikes him in the chest. He falls to the ground in a heap. Red vines twist under his skin where her strike has blasted away his clothing. 

She will read in the local paper the next morning about two men found dead of severe electrical burns. Muggle authorities caution that citizens take care around fallen electrical wires, and to ensure any projects that require digging stay away from power lines.

When Cat returns to Uagadou, Professor H’gar is waiting for her. He calls her into his office.

“A girl must be careful,” he says slowly. He has never called her Cat — he refuses to call her a name he knows is not real.

“It was an accident,” she says. 

It is pointless to lie and pretend she was not there. It may not be legal to track the movements of adult witches and wizards in this part of the world, but Cat would not put it past Professor H’gar.

“The first man’s death was an accident. The second? I do not think so.”

For the first time in years, Cat feels the prickle of fear under her skin. She does not know what retribution will come from her transgressions.

Whatever she expects, it certainly isn’t a job offer.

—

It goes like this: Jaqen gives her a target and the rest is up to her. She has to be crafty — many of the targets are difficult to access — so she relies on Self-Transfiguration to hide in plain sight. She poses as beggar women and wealthy socialites, as young children and old crones. Her method of killing varies, too. Some get a swift death of painless poison, while others — those who have abused the Dark Arts, and almost exclusively men — feel the wrath of Cat’s many curses. Any bodies discovered by muggle authorities are easily explained: more electrical accidents, or drownings, or simply falling from a great height. 

It continues during the school year. Cat’s only real scholarly challenge left is to achieve status as an Animagus, which is much more commonly attempted at Uagadou than any other school. A few of her peers have done it — a small meerkat appears first in the classroom, and a few weeks later a boy transforms himself into a python — but Cat is the first large animal to transform. There had been furtive bets on who would achieve the status of the Animagus and what form they would take. Most assumed Cat would be true to her name — a lion, a leopard, perhaps a cheetah — but they are shocked when an enormous grey wolf towers over them, its face twisted in a snarl.

Professor H’gar gives her full marks — as if marks matter at all to her — but he expresses his disappointment later.

“A wolf form will get you nowhere,” he says. “You will be spotted from far away.”

But Cat has never feared being spotted. By the time her enemies see her, it is too late for them.

She kills as a wolf only once, her jaws locking around the neck of a wizard who had transformed himself into his Animagus form to flee her spells. She’s surprised how difficult it is to track down a single gazelle, so much smaller than her, but then she remembers that a wolf always hunts in a pack.

Cat has no pack.

–

The day of graduation arrives, and the seventh year students celebrate their end of exams. Cat does not join them, and seeks out Professor H’gar instead.

“What now?” she asks.

“You have done good work,” he says. “You could do more.”

He gives her an address in Kampala, and she finds herself a quiet place to live. For an assassin, she lives a simple life. She learns to cook for herself and spends her days reading texts on the histories of different wizarding communities. When she’s not out on a job, she will go swimming or to a muggle museum. She changes her face most days, but there is still always something that remains.

Two months shy of her eighteenth birthday, Cat gets a routine assignment in Cairo. It’s the furthest north she’s been since she arrived in Uganda. Jaqen makes a quip that her “standard method” — Cat assumes he means electrocution — will suffice.

Cat has kept count of every life she has taken. Moreover, she knows exactly the type of people she’s taken down. Witches and wizards who have used their powers to harm others — mostly muggles — or abuse their power and influence. Why Jaqen wants any of these people dead is not a question Cat has felt the need to ask; the people she hurts must be stopped. Often, there have been attempts to stop them several times before, but Cat is the last ditch effort. She does not lose sleep about removing these people from the world.

Cat's morals may have washed away over the years, and she might be an assassin, but there is, she knows, a line that even she cannot cross.

She reaches the line in Cairo.

Cat researches her victims before she strikes. It’s standard procedure: she needs to know where they’ll be and when so she can best lay a trap. Some of her targets come to her, entranced by her transfigured curves. This one is not like that. He is a stooped old man, and shuffles past her with a kind nod. When she pretends to be a begging child, the man pops into a shop and brings back a plate of fūl for her. Cat is not deterred — many of her targets try to look sympathetic in public to cover their nefarious deeds.

But this man is different. The people who she has targeted before were quite wealthy, usually by corrupt means, and had images to maintain. This old man wears threadbare clothing and walks two miles to work rather than take a bus. He lives alone in a small lean-to on the roof of a building — cheap, but illegal housing — and spends his evenings fiddling with an old radio.

Cat knows it’s best not to ask questions, but she is curious. She divines a half a dozen ways to dispose of the man. Usually a swift curse in a dark alley would do, but she feels a rare twinge of sympathy and settles on an abundance of Sleeping Draught in his meager water jug. She hides herself in a corner of the roof, observing him, ready to switch his water for poison when she hears his radio crackle to life.

“Welcome back to the Snow Report. We’re your hosts, Rose and The Snake.”

The voices are familiar to Cat, as if from another life, but she can’t place them.

“A reminder to our listeners to be on the lookout for the Lannister Twins — they’ve most recently been spotted in Sussex, where it is believed they were responsible for the torture of three innocent muggles. It is unclear what they were after. Anyone who may have leads, please drop us a tip.”

“Now for the report: Jon Snow is believed to have been spotted in France last week, but he and his fellow members of the Night’s Watch have evaded capture yet again. It is believed that he escaped on a dragon.”

“Certainly a remarkable feat if our reports are accurate!”

Cat is frozen in place. A cold sweat breaks across her brow. She has not heard the name Jon Snow said aloud in four years. 

As soon as the report begins, the old man Cat had been stalking leaps into action. It is a well-established fact that Cairo was covered in speaker systems. The muezzin call to prayer is amplified this way — five times a day, the city is inundated with the soothing but deafening chants. Now, the old man flicks a switch on the speaker nearest to him on his rooftop and a signal is cast out. The muggles on nearby rooftops take no notice, but magical devices spring to life. Cat can hear a radio across the street with the same news report playing; it is home to a family of wizards Cat had noticed in her study of the old man.

As the report continues, Cat watches the man quickly jot down the words. It’s not a direct copy; he is speedily translating the report into Arabic. When the radio shuts off — “Rose and The Snake signing off for now. Tune in next Monday at noon, sharp” — the man sets his quill aside. He makes quick work of copying his translation with several flicks of his wand, and gathers a half dozen local pigeons to send off his missives around the city.

Suddenly, Cat understand who she is meant to kill. This man is a gatekeeper of information to the city, and an ally to Jon Snow. Jaqen had told her this man was trouble, and that he had been circulating dangerous messages around the city. Cat had assumed he meant that this man was an informant to Dark wizards — all the others had been — but she had been foolish not to question her orders.

In her panic, Cat does not notice the old man is staring at her for quite some time. When she does, she realizes that her shock has caused her to lose focus. The Disillusionment Charm hiding her has dissipated, and she is crouched low in her true face. She stands and walks over to the man.

“I’ve been sent to kill you,” she says.

The old man’s expression does not change.

“I am not afraid of death.”

“I’m not going to. Kill you, I mean.”

The man doesn’t say anything, just watches her as she draws nearer. She notices his fingers flex around his wand, but he does not move to strike.

“Do you know where Jon Snow is?” she asks.

“No more than you do,” he says calmly.

“You should move,” she says suddenly. “They’ll send others to finish my job.”

“I am not afraid of death,” he repeats. He must see something in her face, and he smiles softly. “I have lived a long life, little one. If I die, I die. There are worse things.”

Cat nods, not certain if she quite understands this strange man, but she doesn’t have to. She has done her job, the one she just appointed herself: she has spared his man and warned him to flee. What he does next is his choice.

Cat breaks her rules and Apparates to the base of Uagadou. Jaqen hurries to meet her at the school gates.

“You have failed your mission, and you have broken our arrangement,” he says. His face is placid but his voice drips with fury. “It will be possible to trace your return here, it could be —”

“Why did you send me to kill that man?” she asks.

Jaqen looks at her blankly.

“A girl should not ask such questions.”

“Why him?”

“You were directed to —”

“Who is directing _you_?”

The curse narrowly misses her head, and she ducks to avoid the blast. Jaqen’s face is still blank, but Cat knows it has been Transfigured into this serene expression. The tension in his body belies his fear.

“You do not understand,” he says. “These targets disrupt the safety of the people.”

“That man’s work will _help_ people!”

“Wrong! His work will lure our people into conflicts beyond our reach. We must stamp out the influence of all Dark wizards.”

“Jon Snow is not a Dark wizard!”

“His fate is tied with the Dark, and those who follow him are shrouded in darkness.”

“So what is this, then? We’re the ‘light’?”

“We are neither,” says Jaqen, his voice even more calm than before. “We are the balance. And you are one of us.”

She sheds her face — the bits and pieces she’s collected over the years — and stands before Jaqen. There is no hiding her anger, her betrayal, her grief, but for the first time in four years, she does not want to hide.

“I am Arya Stark,” she says. “And I’m going home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with the story! More to come over the next few weeks.


	6. Reunifcation

It takes a month to sneak back into England, and it’s almost Christmas when Arya arrives in Winterfell. It has become increasingly difficult to penetrate into the country: muggle security is more heightened than ever, and there are magical guards behind it. Even a witch hiding behind a muggle passport will be spotted. Arya knows better than to enter through a train station or an airport.

The voyage is grim, even by her standards. She makes it easily into Ukraine, but it takes a few days to find what she’s looking for. She pays an exorbitant fee for the human traffickers to take her, and she knows very well that neither she nor the vulnerable women crowded in the back of a truck with her are on their way to good jobs. The women with her are afraid — by the time they are shoved into the cab, they are aware that this is not what they had been promised — but it is difficult to fight. There are seven women, and not one of them speaks the same language. Communication through broken English is discouraged; a man sits in the back with them and hits them if they try to speak.

Arya has an idea what’s coming. The men transporting them are careful not to injure their faces — they will get less money for damaged goods. Arya keeps her head down and composes lists: the names of these men, the towns where they stop and change hands, the people who look the other way when their caravan passes through. She silently reviews the names when she feels angry. She is always angry.

They are taken by boat from Estonia and dock in a small harbor somewhere south of Liverpool. The men want to split up the women to take them to the men who have bought them: five cars await, each with the trunk open to squeeze in one or two women. Arya makes her move.

When the police arrive a half-hour later, they find six distraught women, each wrapped in a large blanket. There are a dozen men on the ground nearby, all dead by electrocution. A transformer on the dock has exploded — the police postulate that this is what killed the men — and it smolders as the police interview each woman in turn. Communication is difficult, but one presents a strange piece of parchment. It’s a list of all the men involved in transporting these women, the places they have been, and the officials who had been bribed. Interpol is informed, and the women taken to safe haven. None of them mention the seventh woman. They swore to protect her, and they never tell anyone about what they saw that night.

—

Winterfell is a secluded wizarding hamlet where many pureblood families have lived for centuries. The Starks were certainly the best known, but they had several other neighbors nearby. 

On the very edge of the town sits a shabby manor, the furthest neighbors of the Starks. The dilapidated appearance of the house belies the riches of the family. They have done quite well during the wizarding conflicts, but the head of the house is known to be a miser and mean-spirited man.

The Frey house is filled to the brim with people. Walder Frey has had several young wives over the years: they give him a few children before they mysteriously disappear. Walder Frey ignores his daughters — those who are of age almost never return to the house — but his sons sit beside him at the head of the table. Walder has a few children who are yet to come of age, and they are sat furthest away from him. He is a man who has always believed that children should be seen and not heard.

There is a small army of poorly-paid staff who are preparing Christmas dinner: pies and cakes and roasted vegetables that will go largely ignored by the menfolk. In the chaos in the kitchen, no one can quite say for sure what happened that Christmas evening. When the authorities arrive, they found every single staff member fast asleep. They have each been drugged with a powerful Sleeping Draught, and hav been unconscious for hours.

Boxing Day morning, the _Daily Prophet_ runs a small story buried deep within its pages about the incident. A poisoning at House Frey, no strong leads. But it is _The Quibbler_ that manages to break a full story later that day.

_Walder Frey and his eldest sons were found dead in their home Christmas evening after an apparent poisoning. All of the catering staff were questioned but there are no suspected leads; the staff themselves were also drugged at the time of the incident. Furthermore, Mr. Frey’s younger children were similarly drugged to sleep. It is thought that Mr. Frey and his eldest deceased sons were involved in an attack on Stark Manor four years ago that left Catelyn Stark and Robb Stark dead, and lead to the disappearance and presumed death of Arya Stark._

_But could it be that Arya Stark is not as dead as she’d like us to think?_

_“It was her,” said the youngest Frey daughter, Elanora (15). “Everyone at the table started to fall asleep, but Waldron, Lothar, and Olyvar started choking. I wasn’t as sleepy yet as everyone else, but I saw her. She walked up to my father and said ‘the North remembers’ before he started choking, too. I know it was her. It had to be her.”_

_There have been a flurry of sightings of Arya Stark in the past four years since her disappearance. Most recently, she was believed to be touring as a backup singer with The Weird Sisters in Australia, although Aubrey Derbish (47) of Kent claims to have sold her a birthday cake last July._

_“It was Jon Snow’s birthday, everyone knew it,” said Ms. Derbish. “I’m sure she wanted to celebrate with him — he was seen ‘round these parts just three days ago — and I sell the best cakes in the county.”_

Arya Stark folds the paper and smiles. There are worse ways to announce one’s return.

—

It’s no surprise that Stark Manor proves difficult to locate.

There have long been spells on the house to hide it from view of outsiders, and certain protective charms existed even when Arya was a child. She had expected the security to be increased in her absence and she is quickly proved right when she can no longer made headway in the direction of her home. She walks further and further and yet the trees do not move around her. She is walking in place.

Arya suspects that her efforts to override the protect spells would be fruitless, so instead she goes on the offensive. A sharp blast into the earth lifts a chunk of dirt ten feet into the air, and shortly after two loud pops echo around her.

She doesn’t recognize either figure, but she’s not surprised by that either. Both are men in their thirties, each with a wand raised to her throat.

“I’m here to join the Night’s Watch,” she says lazily, unmoved by their wands.

One man jerks towards her, his eyes narrowed.

“And what makes you think you’re in the right place?”

“I’m Arya Stark. This is my home.”

Both men take a step back, and Arya has to work hard to suppress an eye roll. If she wanted, they would both be dead by relaxing their guard in this way.

“How do we know you’re really her?” says the second man, resuming his defensive stance.

Arya says nothing, but cocks an eyebrow at them, daring them to press her further. The men exchange worried glances.

“Wait here,” the first man says finally, and he moves to Apparate. It is a mistake.

At the last moment, Arya seizes onto his robes and is taken with him. A loud pop has them land in the sitting room of Stark Manor. Both men scramble to disarm her, but it is useless: she carries no wand to remove. She casts a strong shield charm that causes their spells to ricochet around the room.

“Stop!”

Sansa Stark stands at the head of a long table, right atop the site where Arya last saw her brother’s mutilated corpse. The room has been transformed beyond recognition: maps line the walls, and a table strewn with bits of parchment covers half the floor. Sansa herself has changed, too. She is taller and even more beautiful, and she carries herself with great purpose. But her eyes are cold, and there is no hint of the playful smile that used to always linger on her lips.

The sisters lock eyes for a long moment.

“Leave us.”

Both of the men stumble out of the room, eager to leave behind whatever punishment they should be given for their careless actions. Sansa continues to stare at Arya before taking a few halting steps towards her. Something shifts between them and suddenly Sansa is striding towards her, eyes brimming with tears. Sansa throws her arms around Arya, who closes her eyes. She had forgotten the smell of her sister’s shampoo, and suddenly she is nine again, banging on the door of their shared bathroom, demanding that Sansa hurry up.

Sansa pulls away and stares down at her. Neither seems to know what to say, so Arya breaks the silence.

“You need better guards.”

Sansa chuckles, but the laughter does not quite meet her eyes. Arya wonders just what exactly her sister has endured these last four years.

Sansa’s eyes flicker to just over Arya’s shoulder, and out of reflex Arya shifts into a defensive stance, whirling to see what has caught Sansa’s attention. It’s not what she expects.

Bran sits in the doorway, a serene expression of calm on his face. The sight is unnerving. Arya can’t remember her little brother ever looking so placid; he had always been so excitable and bounding around to share interesting facts or play fun games. Her eyes drift to the chair he sits in, which looks like a muggle wheelchair, but has clearly been modified to float an inch off the ground.

“Hello, sister.”

Arya is by his side in a moment, but when she goes to hug him, he scarcely returns the gesture. As she pulls away, his lips twitch into a soft smile, but there is no other sign of excitement.

She’s so alarmed by this that she doesn’t notice the loud, bounding strides of a person headed straight for her until he’s very close. With something like a roar, she’s pulled into the arms of a boy half a head taller than she.

“I knew it! I bloody knew it!”

“Language, Rickon!” comes Sansa’s stern response.

Arya pulls away from the crushing hug and looks up at her youngest brother. His hair is wild and unkempt, and he’s grown tall and gangly. Arya had imagined Rickon would look the same, still like an eight-year-old boy, but of course time had changed all of them. Rickon alone is the only one who still seems capable of smiling properly, although his grin fades the longer Arya stares at him without response.

“Let’s talk somewhere more private,” Sansa suggests, and she leads them out of the room.

To Arya’s surprise, Sansa leads them out onto the grounds and across the snow. They arrive at an old gazebo that Arya had never liked — her mother and Sansa had proclaimed it “quaint” and “romantic,” which solidified her dislike of it — but Sansa makes quick work of adding several large fires to warm them, and a wall of soundproofing to give them privacy. By the time Sansa is finished, Arya has to admit it’s a rather cozy setting, and it’s comforting to watch the snow fall lightly around them.

They settle on benches opposite of each other, Bran maneuvering his chair in the entryway of the gazebo. There’s a short, uncomfortable silence before Rickon breaks it.

“How’d you do it?” he says eagerly to Arya.

“Do what?”

“Escape, of course! Everyone thought you were dead!”

Arya has been trying for weeks to prepare something simple to say in response to this question, but she had yet to come up with anything that sufficed. She shrugs.

Rickon, however, seems unphased by her lack of response and barrels on.

“Well, most people thought you were dead. We weren’t sure. I mean, they did find your broken wand, but they never found _you_ and that seemed suspicious. Besides, everyone though Bran and I were dead, and we weren’t, so we thought it might be possible that you weren’t either.”

“Why did people think you were dead?” Arya asks.

“You weren’t the only one who disappeared that night,” says Sansa gravely. “Everyone was dead or gone.”

“Except you,” Arya says, and she thinks again about what Sansa must have felt these past four years.

“Yes, people knew I was alive,” Sansa nods. “I couldn’t go on the run — I was being watched.”

“How did you get back here then? This is the Night’s Watch headquarters now, isn’t it?”

“It wasn’t at first, not after Mum… not after Mum and Robb died,” Sansa says softly. “The attack splintered the Night’s Watch. There were still pockets of it — our professors, people in the media, a few who worked in the Ministry — but it was a big blow. And once the Ministry truly fell under the Night King’s power, half the members of the Night’s Watch were on the run anyway.”

“Why didn’t they try to hurt you?” Arya asks.

“They did,” Sansa says with a grimace. “Only not in the way you might think. I was a symbol to them, you see? One of the last of an old pureblood family, still attending Hogwarts and following the rules as if nothing had changed. I was supposed to be proof that we should accept life under the Night King, that things were better under him.”

“How did you escape?”

“It took some doing,” says Sansa evasively. “I had to finish Hogwarts, first. I wasn’t ever a great fighter like you, but I had my own set of skills. Eventually I made it back here and we reformed the Night’s Watch properly.”

“What about you two?” Arya asks Bran and Rickon. “How did you escape?”

“We hid,” says Rickon. “And eventually some Night’s Watch members found us in the basement. Remember Osha, who used to babysit us? We stayed with her in Old Town. Bran had to go back to school — hiding in plain sight with Sansa and all that — but I only just started Hogwarts last year. People assumed I was dead the last three years. Gave them a nice shock when I showed up on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.” He gives her a mischievous grin that Arya can’t help but return.

“I’m guessing Hogwarts is also under the grip of the Night King?” Arya ventures.

Rickon’s smile falls, and a dark look clouds the Bran and Sansa’s faces.

“It’s awful,” Rickon admits. “I mean, I wasn’t there before it all went bad, but it can’t have been worse. Half the professors are in the Night’s Watch — secretly, of course — and they look out for students as best they can. But there are all sorts of rules about loyalty to the Night King, and if you break them they hurt you. I got this —” he lifts the fringe of his hair to show a large bruise faded to green and yellow — “for talking out of turn. Bran and Sansa have been trying to teach me to keep my head down, but I’m not as good at it as them.”

Something clicks into place for Arya.

“What house are you in?”

“Gryffindor,” he answers proudly. “Just like you, and Dad, and Robb, and Jon.”

Arya gives a little jolt at Jon’s name.

“He’ll be back tomorrow night,” says Sansa, watching Arya’s response.

“He’s all right then? He escaped that night?”

“Yes. He’s been with Sam and Ygritte on a mission the past few years. He won’t tell us what it’s about exactly —” Arya catches the flare of annoyance in her sister’s expression — “but it’s a mission Headmaster Mormont gave him before he died. He stopped his mission for a bit to help us reform the Night’s Watch after I left school, but he hasn’t been back in a few months. He’ll be very pleased to see you, Arya.”

Arya nods at Sansa and they fall silent again. Arya turns to Bran, who has said nothing since they arrived in the gazebo. Bran gives her a strange half-smile and appears to read her mind.

“You want to ask me about the chair,” he says.

Arya nods, unsure if she wants to know the real answer.

“Rickon is right. Hogwarts has changed,” Bran continues in a flat voice. “It was a lesson that had to be learned.”

Arya shares an uneasy glance with Sansa, who gives her a resigned shrug. Whatever has happened to Bran, it’s clear he’s been like this for a while.

Bran continues his story, either oblivious or uncaring of the exchange between his sisters.

“The Night King had installed some cronies at Hogwarts. It was reckless to go against them, especially with so few of us left from Mormont’s Army. But we did what we could. I heard they were having a meeting in the Astronomy Tower to report back to the Night King himself. I was discovered, and pushed from the edge where I had climbed.”

Arya’s jaw drops.

“How on Earth did you survive the fall?”

“I didn’t hit the ground, just the closest roof below. It took them hours to find me; it was Sansa who raised the alarm that I was missing. By the time I was discovered, it was too late.”

Arya feels a familiar ache inside of her. The constant anger that she carries is fueled by it: the grief of losing her family, of her family’s pain at the hands of the White Walkers. She wants to find them, hurt them, kill them…

Bran’s voice interrupts her thoughts.

“We have all served our part in this war. Now it is time for you to serve yours.”

Arya frowns at him, puzzled.

“You’re going to help us take down the Night King.”

This time, Bran is smiling.

—

The four of them spend hours in the gazebo before they are all hoarse from talking and very hungry. Arya had said little about where she had been, but she had asked them all what felt like a thousand questions. Sansa leads them back into the house where they wolf down a hasty dinner. At least, Rickon and Arya wolf down their dinner; Sansa and Bran eat at a much more dignified pace. 

Afterwards, Bran drifts off towards the library to consult some ancient texts. Rickon huffs at being sent to bed by Sansa, but he follows orders all the same. Before Arya can go in search of her own place to sleep, Sansa rises from the table and beckons Arya to follow her.

“I have a surprise for you,” she says, her eyes alight for the first time all day.

They descend into the kitchens, where someone is humming an upbeat but off-key tune. Arya is not surprised that there is someone there; she has caught glimpses of several Night’s Watch members bustling about Stark Manor all day. But she’s not prepared for who she sees at the large countertop, surrounded by piles of bread dough.

“Hot Pie?”

“‘Arry!” 

Hot Pie rushes to sweep her into a bone-crushing hug. Arya realizes she’s been hugged more in the past four hours than in the past four years. She catches Sansa’s eye over Hot Pie’s shoulder. Her sister gives her a kind nod and quietly backs out of the room

“What are you doing here?” Arya asks Hot Pie.

“I’ve joined the Night’s Watch!” he says proudly. “Only I’m not so good at fighting White Walkers, so they mainly use me in the kitchens. It’s a good job, really. Lots of people are hungry these days — most have to go hungry if they’re off on missions — so it’s good to help out here.”

Arya had forgotten Hot Pie’s tendency to jabber, but she finds it soothing. He continues on, pouring her a cup of tea and shoving even more food towards her as she listens.

“Gotten pretty good at cooking these last two years. My dad taught me plenty before I left home, of course — with my mum leaving us when I was a kid, he always cooked for me — but I wasn’t allowed to use magic then, of course. I think for bread it’s still best to use your hands, but it doesn’t make any difference to use magic to peel potatoes. Saves loads of time. Anyway, I’m of more use in the kitchen. Mormon’s Army taught us plenty of Defense spells, but I’m not exactly a trained wizard, am I? Three years of school isn’t nearly enough.”

“You didn’t go back to Hogwarts after our third year?” Arya says, confused.

“Couldn’t,” Hot Pie replies, starting to braid some bread dough into an elaborate ring. “School wouldn’t allow any half-bloods or muggleborns. Said we weren’t fit to practice magic. They rounded people up and tried to arrest them, so we went on the run.”

“‘We?’”

“Yeah, Gendry came to find me after you disappeared.” 

Arya’s stomach lurches at the mention of her old friend, but Hot Pie continues to speak. 

“He was in a right state. He’d come up to Winterfell to see you, remember? Only he arrived and the place was crawling with Ministry officials talking about how half your family had been killed. He told me he asked about you, but they wouldn’t give him a straight answer, and then some creep started asking him about his parentage and his wand, so he left to find me. He had my address from when he wanted to write you that letter… asked me if I had seen you, and of course I hadn’t, but my dad let him stay for a few days. Then the news came about how the Ministry wanted all non-purebloods to report for inspection, and we figured it was a bad sign, so we made a run for it. My dad is still safe — I got in touch with him to get his best bread recipes — but we haven’t been able to go back in years.”

“You said you’ve only been here two years?”

“That’s right. We didn’t know about the Night’s Watch yet. We were just trying to avoid the Snatchers.”

“Snatchers?”

“Bounty hunters looking for witches and wizards avoiding the Ministry summons. They caught us twice. The first time we got away while they were sleeping, and the second…” 

Something in Hot Pie’s expression shifts, and his voice falters for a moment. He clears his throat and tries again. 

“Well, we were close to Winterfell, actually. Some people on their way to the Night’s Watch meeting stumbled across us and rescued us. We came here, and we’ve been here ever since.”

“You and Gendry?”

“Yep. He’s out right now on a mission, but he should be back before tomorrow’s meeting. He’ll be really glad to see you, ‘Arry. We really missed you.”

“What about the others?” she asks, ignoring the squirming feeling in her stomach. “Mycah? Lommy? Shireen?”

Hot Pie’s face falls, and immediately Arya knows why Hot Pie’s tale had purposefully avoided mentioning them.

“We lost Mycah first,” says Hot Pie quietly. “Just a few weeks after you disappeared. He was convinced you were still alive, and he wanted to find you. We stayed around Winterfell for a while, actually, just to look around. But instead… instead we found The Mountain.”

Arya shuts her eyes against the pain. She can picture Mycah so clearly: his face bright with laughter, his easy smile, the look of focus on his face when he learned a new spell. 

There was a reason Arya had tried to forget who she was for four years, so that she could forget how much she loved her family and friends. So she could forget how deeply it hurt to lose them.

“He didn’t suffer, ‘Arry. He went real quick.”

Arya supposes this is a comforting thing to know, but she promises herself that when she meets The Mountain, he will suffer a far worse fate.

“What about Lommy and Shireen?” Arya says, pushing through the grief.

“It was the second time the Snatchers caught us. They hit us with a bunch of spells through the trees. Gendry and I got lucky — we didn’t get hit. We were with a big group though, and a bunch of others did. Lommy got it pretty bad — I’m not sure what, but he couldn’t stand up. When the Snatchers rounded us up, he asked them to heal him so he could walk… Most of the Snatchers, they just wanted to get you moving as quick as they could. Get their money and get out, you know? But these ones… they liked their jobs a little _too_ much. They didn’t really care about the money, that was just a bonus to them. They wanted to _hurt_ people. So when Lommy asked for their help…”

Hot Pie’s chin wobbles, and he shuts his eyes as if to block out the memory.

“They slit his throat right there. The Night’s Watch swooped in not two minutes later, but it was too late for Lommy.”

A terrible silence hangs over them. They both stare into their tea, now cold, for a long time before Hot Pie speaks again.

“Shireen is alive.”

Arya blinks at him, surprised. He’s still staring into his tea, looking miserable.

“She’s not here?”

Hot Pie shakes his head.

“She didn’t have to go on the run with us — her family’s pureblood — so we lost track of her for a long time. She was all right for a while, as all right as anyone at Hogwarts was, I suppose. Her dad worked for the Ministry, and he did quite well for himself. He wasn’t on the side of the White Walkers —” he adds hastily, seeing Arya’s murderous expression — “but he wasn’t exactly _against_ them either. Seems like he was happy to go along with whatever got him promoted to more power. Shireen says her dad always thought he knew best. I guess he was just happy to be in charge so he could tell everyone what to do.”

“So she’s still with her parents then?”

“No. A few months ago… blimey, I guess it’s been almost a year now… Anyway, it sounded like her dad was going to get promoted again. He’d been with Magical Law Enforcement for ages, but he’d mostly been dealing with pretty standard stuff. Regular criminals, you know, people who sold counterfeit cauldrons and all that. But he was really good at his job, and by good I mean he put a lot of people in prison, some of them without much of a trial according to Shireen. Anyway, he was getting frustrated. He’d put some thief away for three years and they’d get out in five months. Before he accepted his promotion, he wanted to be sure his sentences would carry more weight… wanted people to serve the full time without this ‘released for good behavior’ stuff. Only his superiors told him to look the other way. The people he was putting away were all being turned by the Night King — gathering information for him in some way, or actually helping him attack muggles and muggleborn witches and wizards. Well, Stannis didn’t like that. He had a change of heart, decided it wasn’t worth a promotion if real justice wasn’t being given out. He had a weird sense of standards, but he still had ‘em.”

“How long did he last before the White Walkers were sent to take him down?”

“Two weeks. They sent The Mountain to teach him a lesson, try to bring him back in the fold. He… he attacked Shireen.”

Arya tastes metal in her mouth.

“He turned her…”

“No, it wasn’t a full moon. But he… he _mauled_ her, ‘Arry. It was horrible. She’s got… scars now. On her face.”

Another mournful silence hangs between them. Hot Pie shoves his loaf of bread into the oven and pours them both another cup of tea.

“What happened to her family?”

“Killed that night. Shireen was half dead on the floor and Stannis still refused to work for them. The White Walkers didn’t like that. Him and his wife got the Killing Curse and they left Shireen there to bleed out.”

“But she didn’t die.”

“Her dad was friends with Davos Seaworth. He’s a member of the Night’s Watch — came over to our side right around when we formed up again. Really nice bloke. He’s one of the ones who helped rescue Gendry and me when… Anyway, Shireen got a message to him… she sent her Patronus actually, really clever of her, but she was always the brightest one of us. He got her back here safely and we did what we could, but there’s no way to heal those kinds of wounds properly.”

“Where is she now?”

“She went back to her home, if you can believe it. She had to clean off her own blood from the kitchen floor. There have been security upgrades, of course, so she should be pretty safe — well, as safe as anyone could be these days. She didn’t want the house to fall into the wrong hands. Towards the end, her dad started keeping track of all the criminals he sentenced who got released suspiciously early. It’s been dead useful to have those lists. We’ve stopped loads of muggle attacks by keeping close watch on them. It’s helped turned the tide in our favor for once.”

Hot Pie smiles at her again, his cheery demeanor somewhat restored.

“You’ll see her tomorrow night, too. Oh, everyone’s going to be so excited to see you, ‘Arry! Tell me about where you’ve been.”

“Not tonight, Hot Pie,” she says, pushing away her tea. He frowns at her but recovers his good cheer quickly enough.

“Oh, of course… you must be absolutely knackered. Well, I’ll let you get to bed. I better get a head start on prep for tomorrow’s dinner. The house is going to be packed and I need to make sure I have enough onions…”

Arya drifts silently towards the door, casting a last look at Hot Pie as she leaves the kitchen. She can’t help the soft smile on her face as she watches her friend rummage through the pantry.

Her feet carry her around the halls of the house without thinking. Along the way, she notices the changes in the house in her absence. The guest rooms have been modified to look more like dormitories, each with two bunk beds. She spots one bed that must be Hot Pie’s; it has a poster of ‘Breads of the World’ affixed next to it. Robb’s room is converted in the same way, and even Jon’s room now has three beds instead of two. Arya is certain the usual occupants of these beds are Sam and Ygritte, as evidenced by the enormous pile of books on one bedside table, and the keeper’s gloves on the other.

It is with some trepidation that Arya peers into her parent’s old room — she’s not sure she wants to see a host of people living in it — and there are indeed several beds present. It’s not a dormitory, but an infirmary.

“I thought it was the best compromise.”

Arya whirls around to see Sansa standing in the doorway. Her sister gives her a half smile.

“It was hard, changing the house. It took me ages to clean Robb’s room, and not just because he always kept it in such an awful state.”

“But you did change it.”

“Yes, I did. His friends needed a place to stay. I think he would have approve of the solution.”

“He would have.”

“This room was harder,” Sansa says, moving to look out the window. “But when we were little and we got hurt, sometimes Mother would let us sleep in here on a cot. Do you remember?”

Arya nods. She had certainly spent her fair share of nights recuperating at the foot of her parent’s bed.

“I’m not sure I could’ve survived what you survived,” Arya admits.

Sansa turns to smile at her. It is a sad smile, but the emotion behind it feels real.

“You would have. You did survive. And now we are all together again.”

“The lone wolf dies…”

“But the pack survives.”

The silence is not uncomfortable this time, but warmed by memories of their father, of their mother, of Robb. 

“What about my room?” asks Arya. “Is there a place for me tonight?”

“Your room is unchanged.”

“Why?”

A laugh escapes from Sansa’s lips. “Because I had no idea what to do with it.”

“You didn’t think I’d want to house my friends like Robb?”

“Of course you would. But it was equally likely you would have wanted me to turn it in a weapons arsenal, or a prison to house our enemies, or any number of things.” Sansa gives her a slight shrug. “So I kept it the same. Besides, I wasn’t sure if you had booby-trapped it and I didn’t really want to find out.”

Arya laughs, long and loud.

—

It’s the best night of sleep she can remember in years. Arya wakes, disoriented, in her own bed and wonders for a moment what year it is. Then she catches sight of a long, thin scar across the back of her hand and she remembers.

She doesn’t feel much like talking to anyone, having spent more time in conversation yesterday than she had in years. She snags a piece of toast from the kitchen with a quick nod to a very busy Hot Pie, and avoids the main hallways. As she slept, the house had filled up again, and all the rooms empty last night are occupied. Sansa had told her that some of their guests had been away on missions, while others had been out having clandestine meetings with their family members for Boxing Day. Arya tiptoes silently outside to avoid waking anyone.

There is a thick layer of snow that crunches under Arya’s feet. She wanders the grounds of Stark Manor, taking comfort in the peace of the morning.

A loud crack interrupts the silence. Arya knows that sound.

Even after four years, her legs remember the path to the Quidditch grounds. She could do it blindfolded. The loud cracks continue periodically as she makes her way across the snow, coming to a stop just before the clearing where three dilapidated hoops rise up from the ground. A man stands with his back to her, a wand in his right hand and a bat in his left. A flick towards a ball sends it zooming towards him, and he smacks it away with another responding crack.

Gendry.

It’s hard to tell if he looks different from before. In her memory, he was always taller and more broad than in reality, some dreamy effect of her girlhood crush. He matches her memory — perhaps he really has grown a bit in the past four years. Arya watches as he sends another ball towards himself, and this time he hits the ball straight through the center hoop.

“You’ve gotten better.”

He whirls around at the sound of her voice, wand raised. His jaw drops.

“‘Arry?”

She takes a few steps towards him, and he drops his wand to his side. His face is leaner than before, and there are dark circles under his brilliant blue eyes. The small amount of hair poking out from his hat is cropped shorter than she’s ever seen, and there’s a shadow of a beard on his face. She aches to go to him, but four years of training holds her back, evaluating the situation.

Gendry breaks the tension with a booming laugh.

“This is what Hot Pie meant!” he said, shaking his head. “Kept going on and on about how ‘things are never what they seem’ and ‘can’t forget about the good things in life.’ Thought he was going mad.”

He closes the gap between them and suddenly Arya can’t stand the distance any more. She throws her arms around his middle, slamming into him so hard that a muffled ‘oof’ escapes his lips.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she says quietly.

“I should be saying the same thing to you. Everyone thought you were.”

“Did you?”

Gendry pulls away and looks at the ground. His faces twitches a little.

“I didn’t want to but… yeah, I did. I got here the day after it happened — I was supposed to come stay with you, remember? It was horrible. They said you’d run off, so I thought there was a chance but… then they found your wand broken, all these signs you’d put up a fight. Sounded like something you’d do. Fight them, I mean.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve warned you not to come here that day.”

Gendry shakes his head, and he stares into her eyes again.

“You did what you had to do.”

Silence falls over them, and Arya isn’t sure what to make of the atmosphere between them. It’s not uncomfortable, but there’s a wariness to the both of them. She can’t read Gendry, and he’s always been so easy for her to read. It’s a bit unnerving, but there’s something exciting in the mystery.

“Fancy a match?”

Gendry circles his wrist, swinging his bat. Arya tries to ignore the flash of desire that strikes her.

“You’re on, Stark.”

Arya grabs a spare broom from the shed nearby and they take to the skies. Gendry pursues her with the same determination he’s always shown, and Arya delights in letting him get close before lunging into a deep dive. The air is bitterly cold but she hardly feels it over the pounding of her heart. She realizes that she hasn’t had fun like this since she was at Hogwarts. It should make her sad, but instead it just makes her glad to know she hasn’t forgotten how to enjoy herself.

When they land an hour later, they’re breathless and grinning. They walk back up towards the house so close that their arms brush against each other. There’s an feeling of excitement mounting inside her, and it only grows every time she catches Gendry’s eye and he smiles even wider.

When they catch sight of the house, Arya stops short. She feels like she’s hurtling back through time, back to the dark August night four years ago. She can hear the screams coming from her house.

Gendry reaches out his hand.

“‘Arry?”

Out of instinct, she grabs the extended hand and shoves it back against him. A surge of lightning is shooting through her, and it takes everything in her power to control it.

“Arya,” says Gendry more softly. There’s a hint of fear in his voice and she jumps back from him as if he was the one who electrified her.

“Habit,” she grunts, wringing her hands together. She avoids Gendry’s gaze.

“D’you… want to talk about it?” Gendry asks.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Not yet,” she amends after a moment.

“Alright.”

Gendry seems satisfied with her answer, the first person who isn’t disappointed or worried that she won’t reveal her past. It’s comforting, so much that she can’t help blurting out one thing she’s denied herself all these years.

“I missed you.”

Gendry’s smile is sad, and it makes her heart turn over in her chest.

“I missed you, too, Arya.”

The moment is broken by loud noises coming from the house. Arya instinctively shifts into a more defensive stance. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Gendry clench his bat more tightly and move a bit forward as if to shield her. She has to swallow back a bubble of hysterical laughter; the idea that Gendry would try to protect her just moments after she almost lost control and electrocuted him seems absurd.

In the end, there’s no need to be on their guard. The back door swings open and Jon Snow spills out. Arya feels her heart stop.

She had spent four years scouring every paper she could for his name, for the slightest trace of him. He had been reported dead at least a dozen times, and every time Arya had raged or cried or both. The sketches used by reporters were always based on Jon as a sixteen-year-old, but now, as a man of twenty, Arya takes stock of the differences. His hair is wild and long — she can only imagine what Catelyn would have said upon seeing it — and there’s another scar that crosses his face. But the brilliant, ebullient smile of her cousin is the same, and she hurtles towards him without a second thought.

The hug is the same, too. She’s lifted off the ground, laughing. Jon twirls her in a circle — a move she had always professed to hate as a child even though she secretly loved it — and sets her back down in front of him.

He must see something in her face, because a furrow forms in his brow.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m alive,” she responds evenly.

“Where’ve you been all this time?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Her tone is joking, but Jon’s frown only deepens. He opens his mouth to speak, but there’s another shout from inside.

“Oi! Lunch is ready! Come quick before it’s all gone.”

Jon and Arya make their way up the steps, Gendry trailing behind. They settle into the very cramped kitchen. The room buzzes with excitement, and several times Jon opens his mouth to ask Arya again about her past. She deflects, asking Hot Pie for second helpings, or turning her attention to Rickon’s excited retelling of his Quidditch skills. Jon frowns at her, but by the end of the meal he seems resigned that neither of them is ready to talk about their past just yet.

—

The sitting room of Stark Manor has been magically expanded to fit the several dozen members of the Night’s Watch present for that evening’s meeting. There are many familiar faces: her old school teachers, some of her parents’ friends, even Khal Drogo and Danerys Targaryen. Arya spots Shireen, who gives her a jubilant wave. Arya’s heart twists; the scars on Shireen’s face, as horrific as they are, can’t hide her joy. Arya knows it’s for nothing — she’s not the same person that Shireen remembers.

But, as Arya slowly realizes during the meeting, no one is the same person she remembers them to be, either.

The starkest change is Sansa, who for all intents and purposes, leads the meetings. Most of the members look to Jon for the final word, but Arya sees clearly that it’s Sansa who holds all the cards. Moreover, it’s clear that Sansa is annoyed by the few who seem to rely on Jon’s word as law. Arya can guess why. If Jon has been as absent and mysterious as everyone implies, it was truly Sansa who had rebuilt the Night’s Watch from the rubble. Arya knows that even in the wizarding world, the work of an exceptional woman is still often overlooked.

She loves Jon deeply, of course, but even she is frustrated by his seemingly deliberate obfuscation. They all want to bring down the Night King, and Arya finds it hard to believe that whatever Jon is chasing is truly so dark that none of them, save Ygritte and Sam, can know about it. Then again, Arya has essentially been a murderer for hire for the past few years, so perhaps her version of what qualifies as ‘dark’ is a bit skewed compared to most people in the room.

She learns details about other members as well. Professors Tarth and Lannister have been worked to send muggleborn and halfblood students to be fostered at other schools, mostly Ilvermorny in America. Professor Celgane — whom everyone just seems to call The Hound now — has gone deep undercover in the werewolf community to try to persuade them, if not to join the Night’s Watch, then at least to avoid the White Walkers. Even Bran and Rickon have played a part using ravens instead of owls to send messages in and out of Hogwarts.

As the meeting winds down, assignments are given. There are several people of interest to guard, and others to tail to make sure they’re up to no good. Arya steps forward to volunteer her services.

“Arya, do you have a wand?” Sansa asks.

“No,” Arya says. She’s about to add that she doesn’t need one, but Sansa speaks first.

“Gendry will make you one, then. You’ll take first watch guarding the grounds tomorrow night, and then we can move you to long distance missions once you’re armed. Meeting adjourned.”

Seated members rise and small groups congregate to catch up, the volume in the room rapidly rising. Arya stays rooted to the spot, staring at Gendry in the opposite corner of the room. 

_Gendry will make you one_? What did that mean?

Before she can ask, a movement near Sansa catches her eye. A middle-aged man approaches Sansa and swoops in close, whispering in her ear. Sansa looks vaguely bored and annoyed by this, but it’s difficult to tell. Sansa has learned to mask her emotions well in Arya’s absence.

It takes her a moment, but Arya eventually remembers the man: Peytr Baelish. He had been a friend of their parents, or at least, he had gone to school with them. Arya remembered her father mentioning Baelish; it hadn’t sounded like he had liked him very much. Arya notices Baelish covertly glancing at her as he talks to Sansa. Arya decides to keep a note of the interaction and marches over to Gendry.

“Your last wand,” he asks, not waiting for her to speak. “Nine inches, dragon heartstring… yew?”

“Oak,” she corrects. “What did Sansa mean when she said you’d make me one?”

“Exactly that.”

“You know how to make wands?”

“Thought it’d be a useful thing to learn, what with the White Walkers confiscating muggleborn and half-blood wands.”

“Can I see one of your wands?” 

Gendry pulls a face and pulls his out of his pocket.

“They’re nothing special yet. Takes years to become a master wandsmith.”

“This is amazing,” she says, holding the wand up. “Good balance, smooth lines. You’re right, it’s not perfect, but it’s a damn good wand, Gendry.”

“Thanks,” he says, flushing a little. “I’m not promising you anything as good as your old one. We’re short on dragon heartstring anyway.”

“I don’t need a wand,” Arya says quickly. “I don’t use one most of the time.”

Gendry looks puzzled.

“Yeah, but don’t you miss it?”

Something squeezes in Arya’s chest. Suddenly she is eleven years old, skipping down Diagon Alley with her new wand, her father laughing at her excitement. She _does_ miss having a wand, but not for the convenience.

“I’ll get a rough one for you just to get the feel of it,” Gendry continues. “Then we can figure out what works best.”

“All right,” she agrees.

She turns back to Baelish and Sansa, who is now frowning in her direction. When Sansa catches her watching, her face goes blank. Arya’s eyes narrow at Baelish, who observes this interaction with the slightest grin.

“Don’t know if I like that guy,” Gendry says quietly. “Always trying to poke his nose in everyone’s business. As if we didn’t have enough to worry about with White Walkers running about.”

Arya nods absently. _Definitely_ going to have to keep an eye on things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come - end of the semester means more time to work on fun projects ;)


	7. Dusk Before Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some stuff bordering the M/E rating... I'm keeping it at M, since I figure y'all know what you're in for here, but be warned!

The school holidays come to a close, and Bran and Rickon must return to Hogwarts. Arya is deeply frustrated that she is forbidden from escorting them to the Hogwarts Express; Sansa insists that Arya stay as low profile as possible. She feels caged and resents it.

The only advantage of her cage is that it is a comfortable one. Hot Pie is an exceptional cook, even with the simplest ingredients. Stark Manor is warm despite the freezing Northern winter raging outside, and her childhood bed is as cozy as ever.

The problem is, she can’t seem to sleep in it.

She’s not sure exactly what the problem is. She’s never really struggled to sleep before, except for the summer after her father died. Usually she exhausts herself until she shuts down, but even as she attempts to stay fit — running through sleet and snow, laps around the Quidditch pitch — sleep won’t come. After a week of restlessness, she decides she needs a change of pace and adjourns to a small study tucked near the back garden.

It turns out she’s not the only one awake.

Gendry is lounging on a small sofa, fiddling absently with a wand. Arya wonders if it is the one meant for her. She knows she can leave without him noticing her — he hasn’t appeared to sense her presence — and normally she would leave to be alone. But something makes her step forward onto a creaky floorboard. Gendry looks up.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks.

Arya shakes her head.

“Welcome to the club,” Gendry says grimly, rising to make room for her on the couch.

She sits on the opposite end, splaying her legs out in a rather unladylike manner. She thinks of her mother scolding her for it and shuts her eyes.

“Must be hard, being back home,” Gendry says. 

She should be surprised that he guessed her thoughts so easily — she has prided herself in becoming unreadable — but she supposes it’s a pretty obvious guess. She nods.

“It’s weird having you back,” Gendry admits.

Arya opens one eye to look at him.

“Good weird,” he adds quickly. “I’m glad you’re not dead. Just… don’t really know what to make of you now. You seem… different.”

“I am,” she says bluntly. She does not elaborate.

“S’pose we all are,” Gendry sighs.

“How’re you different?” she asks. Obviously the wand-smithing is new, but she shouldn’t be too surprised about that. Gendry was always great with charms; it made sense he would be gifted in wand-making.

“Same way everyone else is different, I guess. Once you lose people… once you’ve killed… part of you isn’t the same anymore.”

Arya closes her eyes again. She doesn’t want to admit to herself just how right he is. 

“I used to be great at sleeping,” Gendry says in a slightly lighter tone. “Slept like the dead. Don’t do too much of that nowadays.”

“Why did you come down here?” she asks.

Gendry shrugs.

“Never seen anyone else in here. It’s got a fireplace, so it’s always warm. And sometimes I manage to fall asleep on the sofa, but if I don’t, it’s at least close to the kitchen so I can go down and talk to Hot Pie when he makes breakfast.”

“How on Earth can you handle talking to Hot Pie _before_ breakfast?”

Gendry laughs.

“He makes me a _big_ cup of tea first. Extra strength.”

A ghost of a grin flits over Arya’s face. She can feel Gendry’s eyes on her as she stares into the fire.

“Is it true… I heard you’re an Animagus now.”

Arya nods.

“Can I see?”

Arya turns to look at Gendry. His expression is softened by the firelight, a faintly curious expression on his face. She nods.

Most people gasp the first time she transforms in front of them. One or two people have let out little shrieks of fright. Arya can see why — her wolf form is more than twice her human size, with murderous fangs and claws. She waits for Gendry’s reaction.

He bursts out laughing.

Arya immediately transforms back, crossing her arms in annoyance.

“A bloody wolf!” Gendry says gleefully, practically choking on his own laughter. “Of course you’re a bloody wolf!”

“Most people are scared,” she says. She’s annoyed at how petulant she sounds.

Gendry, however, grins even more widely.

“I’d never be scared of you ‘Arry.”

“You should be,” she says, all the emotion gone from her voice. “I’m not who you think I am. I’ve seen things.”

Gendry’s smile falls.

“I know you have,” Gendry says softly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I trust you. I know you wouldn’t hurt me, even as a wolf.”

“I’ve been gone for years, Gendry. You don’t know me anymore.”

Gendry shrugs.

“Maybe not. But I remember who you were. And I don’t think you can change who you really are, deep down. You were my friend. You’ll always be my friend.”

God damn _Hufflepuffs_. 

Her heart seizes like she’s fourteen again. She didn’t think it was even possible to have a crush after everything she had been through, but there it is, clear as day. Gendry Waters is impossibly, wonderfully, indescribably appealing. 

She’s not quite sure what to do with this revelation, so she goes for the safest option. She transforms back into a wolf.

Gendry doesn’t laugh this time, but turns his head to admire her.

“Wow, I didn’t realize wolves were so big. Always thought they were just big dogs, I guess. Look at the size of your paws! Er… should I call them paws? I mean, they _are_ paws, but they’re actually your hands… Blimey, this is weird.”

Arya gives a little laugh that comes out as a soft woof. Gendry grins madly.

“Has everyone else seen you like this?” he asks.

Arya shakes her head.

“Well, it’s incredible. You won’t be very stealth on missions, mind, but you’ll scare the shit out of some White Walkers.”

Arya lets out a playful growl, and Gendry smiles again.

They both sink back into their ends of the couch, staring into the fire. A long time passes before Gendry shifts nervously.

“This is going to sound really odd,” he starts. “And I know you’re not a dog or anything, but… I mean…”

He trails off, looking awkward. Arya shuffles herself closer, positioning her head just next to his hand.

“You don’t mind?” he asks, unsure.

Arya attempts to nod, and Gendry tentatively lays his hand on her head.

Her eyes immediately slide shut. She will deny it to anyone who asks, but having her ears scratched is _heavenly_. No one has ever done this, of course — up until a week ago when she hugged her siblings, no one had touched her for years. But the sensation is sublime: the warmth of Gendry’s hand, the faint pressure of his fingertips. Arya is lulled by the rhythmic movements as her body sinks into the couch below her.

When she opens her eyes, dawn is breaking through the window. She blinks and raises her head; Gendry’s hand slides off of it with a thud. He is fast asleep next to her, drooling a bit on a throw pillow. She struggles a bit to lift herself off the couch — her enormous limbs have been awkwardly squeezed into the small space. The movement rouses Gendry, who blinks at her.

“Mornin',” he says, rubbing his eyes. “You manage to get some sleep?”

Arya transforms back, feeling cold at the absence of her thick fur.

“Yes. You?”

“Yeah. Must’ve fallen asleep pretty quick, actually. Don’t remember anything after I, er, pet you.”

Arya jerks her head toward the kitchen.

“Tea?”

Gendry follows her. They eat in silence.

—

It becomes a regular habit, falling asleep on the couch together. Some nights one or both of them are on guard duty, but any night they’re both at Stark Manor, they sneak downstairs to the study. Arya always transforms into a wolf. Gendry manages to transfigure the couch to make it extra wide to accommodate their collective bulk. There are still some restless nights, but it feels better than being alone. Sometimes Gendry gets chatty and tells her stories of things she’s missed, or tales from before she knew him. Often he falls asleep in the middle of the story, and she has to request it again the next night before she transforms. She never shares her own tales, however. There are somethings she still can’t say aloud, even in the comfort of Gendry’s presence.

A month since Arya’s return passes, and she’s finally promoted to more complex missions. She’s annoyed that she’s had to prove herself loyal, but she understands it. She has, after all, acted as little more than a mercenary the past few years.

The first three missions are boring, but boring can be a good thing. Arya and her partners tail people of interest, or stand guard over important people. She takes meticulous notes to return to Sansa, who only seems passably interested. This annoys Arya even more, and she and her sister quickly fall out of speaking terms. This has been par for the course for their relationship over the years, but it stings a bit.

It’s late February when Arya is assigned to tail two low-level members of the White Walkers. She’s paired up with Gendry for the first time, and she has to admit she is intrigued to see his style in the field. He is, admittedly, terrible at Self-Transfiguration even after all these years, so he doesn’t bother disguising himself. With the right muggle clothing, however, his powerful frame is far more noticeable than his face. He looks like a bruiser, face half-shrouded in a baklava against the cold. More than one muggle crosses the street to avoid him.

Arya disguises herself easily enough. She gives herself fried, dirty-blond hair and adds a few inches to her height. She bulks herself up a little, but there’s no real need; her heavy winter coat adds to her frame, making her look more formidable than usual. An unlit cigarette hangs from her lips, and she toys with it as she and Gendry wait on the street. For all intents and purposes, they make a rather unsavory-looking duo.

Their targets spend the evening inside a pub, easily framed in the front window for all to see. Arya had chosen to stake them out from a dark, secluded alley across the street to avoid Gendry taking off his disguise. She could easily transfigure his face for him, but there was always the risk that she be distracted or injured and the spell would lift. Gendry’s face suddenly changing would be a dead giveaway, so they were stuck out in the cold. She was thankful, at least, that Gendry had perfected warming charms over the years. 

She tries not to think about the new wand in her coat pocket. Gendry had been less than satisfied with this version, but he had declared it sufficient until he could get a better one for her. 

“You’d think I’d know you well enough to make one better than this,” he had said, frowning.

“I had to test out twenty wands when I went with my dad the first time,” she admitted.

“I believe it. You’re tough to pin down. But I’ll get it, don’t worry.”

Arya had waved the wand. Sparks had emerged, but Gendry was right. It wasn’t perfect. She feels better knowing that if worse came to worse, she didn’t need a wand to kill. 

But killing was not supposed to be on the menu tonight, just watching from the shadows. It’s mind-numbingly boring, and she and Gendry lurk in silence for the most part.

“It’s funny,” Gendry says after hours of quiet.

“What?”

“Your eyes. You didn’t change them.”

Arya scowls.

“Can’t,” she says bitterly. “Been trying for years, but every time I do Self-Transfiguration, some part of me always stays the same. Usually it’s my eyes.”

“Hm. I think it’s nice.”

“It could get me killed, Gendry.”

“Well, not that part. Just… dunno, I guess it’s nice that you’re always you.”

Arya feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with the heating charms on her coat. Before she can respond, a movement catches her eye.

“They’re rolling out,” she says, forcing her posture to remain loose and relaxed. “Intel said they’d be here for two more hours.”

“Maybe they got bored of drinking.”

Arya raises her eyebrows. Gendry shrugs.

“Maybe it’s nothing,” he adds.

But Arya is suspicious. Men like this stay at the bar until closing, and a seedy bar like this is often open to men like them long after hours. Leaving barely past midnight seems odd. Then again, this is why there was a watch on them — Arya and Gendry would pursue from a safe distance and report back to the Night’s Watch.

They amble slowly along, keeping well back from their targets. They round a corner when a movement catches Arya’s eye.

She ducks just in time. A jet of red light sails over her head and she and Gendry spin to face their attackers.

Their original targets turn back, now joined by four more men. A fifth man jumps from a nearby fire escape and tries to tackle Gendry, but gets knocked out cold instead. Arya has to fight an insane urge to grin; it seems that Gendry has not lost any power from his school years as Hufflepuff’s best Beater.

Her glee is short-lived. They are still outnumbered six to two, and the next spell fired is not just to stun. Arya wastes no time and fires back, hitting one man square in the chest. She takes down another easily but Gendry isn’t so lucky. 

He lets out a cry of pain and stumbles. Arya’s heart leaps in terror, something she hasn’t felt in a fight for years. She deflects a jinx, one eye fixed on Gendry. His right arm hangs limply by his side, wand dangling uselessly in his hand. One of their attackers approaches, wand raised to strike, but, with a shout of pain, Gendry grasps his wand with his left hand and shouts.

“ _Stupefy_!”

The man flies backwards into a brick wall, his head echoing in a loud crack before he slides slowly into the pavement.

Arya, who has been almost entirely on the defensive with the remaining three fighters, moves even closer to Gendry. His face is pale, and he looks on the verge of fainting, his eyes going slightly unfocused every few seconds. One of the men sees an opportunity and moves to Arya’s side, aiming his wand past her at Gendry on the ground.

Arya’s vision goes blindingly white. Electricity crackles through the air, the familiar smell, first of rain and then of burnt flesh. When the light dims, the men are still twitching, but Arya knows this is just an after-effect, like fish hauled onto land. They are dead.

She sends out a Patronus and almost instantly, two members of the Night’s Watch appear: Davos Seaworth and Beric Dondarion. Beric quickly binds the two unconscious, but still living, men. Davos kneels next to Gendry, prodding his shoulder with a wand. Gendry grunts in pain, struggling to sit up.

“Hold it, boy,” Davos says sternly. “Fixing bones is hard enough without you moving about.”

“What the hell happened to these three?” Beric asks, standing over the dead men. Angry red vines twist across their vacant faces.

“Electrocuted,” Arya says. “If you bring down one of those electrical lines, the muggle police will make their own assumptions.”

“Done this before then, have you?”

Arya says nothing. Gendry is staring at her, his face now tinged with green.

“No use trying to fix this out here,” Davos says. “Infirmary would be best for you. Lady Stark, would you —“

“I’ve got him,” Arya says quickly. “And it’s Arya, not Lady Stark.”

“Begging your pardon, Lady Stark.”

Arya glares at the older man, but he pays her no attention, his focus on Gendry.

“You’ll be all right, lad. Might be laid up for a few days, but it’s nothing can’t be fixed. We’ll sort this out this out here. You two go ahead.”

Gendry nods weakly an Arya winds an arm around his waist.

“This is going to hurt,” she warns.

Gendry takes a steadying breath.

“Ready.”

Side-along Apparition is always a tight squeeze, and slightly painful even without whatever is wrong with Gendry’s shoulder. They make it to Stark Manor grounds with a pop and Gendry sways.

“Fuck,” he says. He doubles over and vomits in the snow.

Arya vanishes it easily and leads him up to the house. It’s slow and freezing — all of the warming charms Gendry had put on their coats have evaporated — but they make it eventually and Gendry is rushed up to the makeshift infirmary.

Sansa catches hold of Arya as she heads up.

“You were attacked? You’re sure?” she asks breathlessly.

“‘Course I’m sure. Gendry’s had his arm half-ripped off. What the hell else would have happened?”

Sansa, however, seems distracted. 

“I’ll find you later,” she says curtly, and disappears.

Arya takes a detour to the kitchens — Hot Pie fixes up a cup of Gendry’s favorite tea — and she goes up to the infirmary to deliver it.

Davos is already there. He explains to Arya and a still dazed-looking Gendry that the two apprehended men were dead.

“Dead?”

“One of them cracked his head open on that wall,” Davos explains, and Gendry winces. 

“But the other one…” Arya says slowly. “I know Gendry’s strong, but you can’t tell me that he punched a man to death.”

Davos’s face darkens.

“I don’t think he did. But we brought him in for questioning, still unconscious, and when we came back to the cell, he was dead.”

Arya’s heart pounds, mind racing with possibilities. Davos gives her a significant look.

“I’ve informed your sister. She asked me to meet back with her now. You’ll keep an eye on this lad? If there’s something afoot, I don’t want any funny business happening while he’s injured.”

Arya remembers now one of Gendry’s stories from their evenings on the couch. He had told her about Davos saving him and Hot Pie from the Snatchers. That, combined with the fact that Davos had saved Shireen’s life after the Mountain had attacked her, had been more than enough for Arya to feel favorably about the man. There were other stories, too, little moments of guidance and help that Davos had offered to Gendry. Privately, Arya thought it sounded like Gendry saw Davos like the father figure he had never had. The fact that Davos was now tasking Arya to protect Gendry gave her a rare feeling of comfort.

Arya nods to Davos and he takes off. She settles in next to Gendry, offering him the tea.

“Cheers,” he says, downing the mug in two gulps.

“You should take this pain potion, too,” she adds. “It’ll help you sleep.”

“Don’t need it,” Gendry grits out.

“You can barely speak, you’re in so much pain,” she points out.

“Don’t like it,” he amends. “Not being able to defend myself when I’m asleep.”

Arya nods, She understand the feeling.

“I’ll be here,” she promises. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Gendry gives her a long look, then slumps against his pillows.

“Alright then.”

He stares at Arya, blue eyes suddenly alight with interest.

“You have done it before, haven’t you? Killing, I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Always like that? The… the lightning stuff?”

“Sometimes,” she says, wary. 

Gendry is looking at her with a blazing intensity. His blue eyes are dark and hungry. She’s seen this before, men who envy her powers. They want to know her secrets, how she can make people hurt. It turns her stomach.

But Gendry surprises her. 

“That was incredible,” he breathes. “Never seen anything like it. You were so… _powerful_.”

And she realizes that he’s not hungry for her knowledge. He hungers for _her_.

Her stomach jolts. Gendry has never looked at her like this before. She wonders for a moment if its a side-effect of the pain potion, but the vial is still sealed in his hand.

“You used your left hand for that Stunning Spell,” she says quietly.

“You told me once it could be useful in a fight.”

“I was eleven.”

“Still. You were right.”

Gendry’s eyes never leave hers. The air between them feels thick with tension, but Arya makes no move to alleviate it. She can feel her heart pounding in her chest, and for once it’s not out of fear or hatred. It feels good, but she’s not quite sure what to do next.

The moment is broken by a horrible, hacking cough. The Hound stomps into the room, rummaging through the medicine cabinet.

“Where’s the bloody Pepper-Up Potion?” he grumbles.

Gendry glares at him briefly, an annoyed expression on his face. Then, wincing, he uncorks his own potion and swallows it in one.

“Here,” Arya says, getting up to help the Hound. “Bottom shelf.”

“What’s it doing all the way down there where no one can see it?”

“It’s alphabetized,” she points out.

“Stupid bloody system. What’re you doing here, then?” he adds.

“I live here,” she deadpans.

“Oh for fuck’s sake — I meant what’s gotten you lot in trouble? This bloody bull do something stupid?”

“No,” Gendry says sullenly. 

Arya remembers that at school she had rather liked Professor Clegane’s gruff ways, but Gendry hadn’t. He had never been a fan of older men who tried to make him feel small.

“We were ambushed,” Arya says. 

“Ambushed? Thought you two were just on tail duty tonight.”

“We were. But there was a trap.”

“Hmm.” 

The Hound frowns, lost in thought.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with the werewolves?” Arya asks.

“There’s a bad cough goin’ around,” the Hound responds, swallowing his potion. Steam pours out of his ears, and Arya has to bite her lip to keep from smiling. “Just came to get some supplies. Hard to get these potions when you’re a werewolf. Think bringing some down there will give us a few allies on our side.”

Arya nods and turns back to Gendry. The pain potion seems to be working; he’s slowly tipping sideways on his pillows, head nodding forward every few seconds. She gingerly grabs hold of his shoulders and helps scoot him over, removing a pillow so he can lie flat. By the time his head is back on the pillow, Gendry is snoring softly.

“Arya, I need a word with you. Privately.”

Sansa has swept into the room, looking fierce. Arya immediately feels wrong-footed; it’s the exact same look that Catelyn had had on her face when Arya had misbehaved.

“Now?”

“Now.”

Arya hesitates, looking back at Gendry. She had promised…

“Go ahead,” the Hound says quietly. “I’ll be in for the night. He’ll be alright.”

Arya gives Gendry one last look and follows Sansa out into the hall.

“Well?”

“Not here,” Sansa says. “Come on.”

Sansa leads Arya to her own room. Arya raises a brow.

“Your room has the best Imperturbable Charm,” Sansa explains.

“Why don’t you have a better one on your room?”

“It would be suspicious.”

“Suspicious?”

“For months, I’ve suspected that someone in the Night’s Watch is not who they seem. I’ve tried to prove it without much success. But still, strange things keep happening — unfortunate timing leading to an escape, ambushes on what should be safe missions. Tonight, though… tonight proves it.”

Arya watches Sansa pace the room.

“People have been telling me your return was suspicious,” Sansa continues. “After almost four years you turn up _just_ as Jon thinks he can turn the tide? It’s all very convenient.”

Arya knows she should be angry at this veiled accusation, but something in Sansa’s countenance makes her curious.

“‘People’ have told you this?” she asks.

“Just one person, actually.”

Arya nods, motioning for Sansa to continue.

“It was no coincidence that ambush happened. You were supposed to die tonight, Arya. I’m certain of it.”

“And here I am, still alive” Arya says. “What now?”

“I’ve got a job for you.”

—

It takes four days for the body to be found. There’s no question that it’s murder, but the authorities are stumped over the exact cause of death. But there’s no way the man could’ve strung himself up by his feet and sliced open his own throat with his hands tied around his back.

Arya sleeps well the night after she kills Petyr Baelish.

It had been easy enough to find him. She had quickly pieced together what had happened once Sansa had given her the directive to find and dispose of Petyr. He had   
been manipulating Sansa for years, ever since she had started to rebuild the Night’s Watch, but she had needed his help. Petyr had really only ever looked out for himself, and had been selling secrets to the White Walkers. Sansa had long suspected that Petyr was part of the Night’s Watch for less-than-honorable reasons, but his attempts to cast doubt upon Arya’s return had sealed his fate. 

Petyr had been in the house all evening, no doubt waiting in case things went wrong. Arya knew that Petyr had a way with potions, and a quick sniff of the dead man in the cell convinced her that the man had been forced to drink a Draught of Death. She knew Petyr would no doubt be keeping a low profile for the evening, so she waited for him to come to her. Sansa had asked Petyr to ‘deal’ with Arya in the gazebo; he had not suspected that it was she who was supposed to be dealing with him.

Petyr had attempted to barter for his life. He had, in fact, tried many tricks: denial of his involvement, promises of money, casting aspersions on Sansa and Jon.

“It’s been years since the Night King’s return and not _once_ has Jon Snow confronted him. Do you really think he can bring the most powerful wizard alive down?”

“Yes.”

“I can act as a spy, you know. I can get secrets from the White Walkers, use them to…”

Arya did not let him finish his sentence. She watched as the blood pooled around his body, feeling nothing, not even satisfaction at a completed job. But then again, killing had never given her anything. It was just killing.

She cleaned the blood easily and Apparated to a village thirty miles south. She strung him up for good measure. It would confuse the White Walkers; they assumed that just because Jon had always been reluctant to kill that the rest of Night’s Watch felt the same way. Certainly they would not guess that someone within the Night’s Watch would be quite so ruthless, and Petyr had plenty of enemies to go around.

Arya returned to the infirmary and pushed an empty cot next to Gendry’s bed. She transformed herself into a wolf and fell asleep. No one disturbed her.

—

She sees fairly little of her family over the next few weeks. Bran and Rickon are, of course, away at Hogwarts. Jon is frequently off on secretive missions, and Sansa is usually holed up in her chambers writing missives and organizing a mountain of information. Arya tries not to disturb her too much, but they seem to be getting on better now that Baelish is out of the picture. It’s strange; Arya finds herself annoyed with Jon and his secrets but friendly with Sansa, a complete switch from her entire childhood.

She spends more time with rest of the Night’s Watch. Hot Pie is as chatty as ever, and Arya finds it comforting to listen to him prattle on about bread just to clear her mind. Occasionally, Arya gets paired up with the Hound on missions. He’s just as rude and grouchy as she remembers, but she oddly enjoys his company. She can be as petty and small-minded as she wants and he doesn’t seem to care. On rare occasions, Shireen stops by Stark Manor and she joins Arya for a walk around the grounds. It’s awkward at first — Arya had always been closer to Mycah, and Shireen to Lommy — but they manage to rekindle their friendship.

There’s no one she spends more time with than Gendry. They resume their nightly sojourns to the study, although most of that time together is spent sleeping. She transforms into a wolf and buries herself next to him, his hand threaded into her fur. They adopt Quidditch practice as well, and it’s just as breathless and brutal as Arya remembers from their time at Hogwarts. Most often they pass the time in one of the greenhouses behind the manor. Gendry uses it as a makeshift workshop for his wands, while Arya practices spells and pours over tomes of the Dark Arts. Hot Pie admonishes her for once setting a cabbage on fire when testing out new spells, but otherwise it is an excellent place to work.

Something has shifted between her and Gendry, and she feels trapped in a strange sort of limbo. She catches him watching her, but when she meets his eye, he just gives her a lopsided grin and goes back to his work. She has the strange urge to tell him things, like that he looks nice in his green sweater, or that she likes the sound of his laugh. Perhaps it’s because he has gotten into the strange habit of saying such things to her. She’s not used to compliments, and she usually scowls at him to hide her blushing. Gendry only seems to find it amusing and keeps doing it.

“Your hair looks nice in a braid,” he says as he nears the greenhouse one morning, arms laden with logs of wood.

“Keeps it out of my face,” she mumbles.

Gendry smiles and lets the wood clatter to the ground.

“You free to help me with a project?”

“Sure,” she says, intrigued.

“I’ve got supplies to make more wands, but most of the wood is useless unless it’s been properly hewn. Problem is magic can warp it, so you’ve got to split the logs by hand.”

“You want me to chop wood?”

“Nah, I’ll take care of that,” Gendry says, stripping off his sweater. Arya tries not to ogle his muscular forearms. “But once I’ve chopped it, it needs to be sealed so the… I dunno, all the books just call it ‘the essence’ — doesn’t escape. It’s a pain to chop and then grab my wand to coat them in wax, so…”

“Coat them in wax, got it,” Arya says.

“Thanks, ‘Arry. I’ve tried doing it by myself but I nearly chopped my fingers off trying to be quick enough.”

Arya thinks she has the better end of the deal in this task. Gendry works up a sweat while she relaxes, casually flicking her wand to move the smaller sections of wood into little piles. She gets quite the view, too: Gendry’s shirt frequently rides up as he swings the axe upwards. She abandons the pretense that she’s not watching him. Gendry appears completely focused on his task and unaware of Arya’s heated gaze.

Just as he chops the final log, Gendry looks up and gives her an uncharacteristically wolfish grin.

“Enjoy your last look,” he says.

He lifts the axe, his eyes back on the wood. Arya flushes, mortified. She had been obvious and now he _knew_ she had been staring at him like some sort of creep.

But once the last log is split and preserved, Gendry smiles at her. He doesn’t seem upset to have been stared at; if anything, he looks pleased.

“Thanks for helping,” he says. “Hopefully this batch of oak will be good enough to get you a proper wand.”

“About that,” Arya says, jumping up. “I had an idea.”

She darts into the greenhouse to grab a scrap of paper she’s been working on.

“I’ve seen wands like this in some books,” she says, deliberately avoiding which particular texts reference her weapon of choice. “Think you could make something like this?”

Gendry frowns, examining the paper.

“I could try,” he says finally. “But I’ll still want to make you a normal wand in case this one doesn’t work. A dual-ended wand is… an interesting idea, but it might compromise the long-term stability.”

“That’s fine,” she says, shrugging. “I only need it for one fight.”

There is an uncomfortable pause. Everyone has been avoiding it, but it’s more and more clear that a reckoning is coming, and soon. Jon has been as secretive as ever, but he at least gives them enough warning that his mission is almost completed.

“It’s going to end at Hogwarts,” Jon tells the members of the Night’s Watch. “The Night King won’t let it go without a fight.”

And yet, there was still some final step Jon needed to take care of before the stage was set. Arya was itching for the fight — she had dreamed of revenge for so long, she could taste it. This interlude, this waiting… it seemed to be dulling her bloodlust, and she was irritated by it. She needed to focus on fighting, not on Gendry’s taut abdomen.

-

Time drips slowly as winter melts into spring. Arya goes through the usual motions: missions for the Night’s Watch, patrols of suspicious people, practicing dueling in the greenhouse. But she can feel the constant presence of her friends and family making her softer and she resents it.

She is one of the few who is thrilled when Jon sends a message just as April fades into May.

“It’s time.”

The Night’s Watch is thrown into a frenzy of activity. It seems like everyone is jammed in the hallways of Stark Manor at once, arms full of weapons, potions, and supplies. People are shouting between rooms and hallways, trying to find shield cloaks and protective dragon-hide gloves. Arya spends most of her afternoon with a harassed-looking Sansa, who is trying to devise a plan to get students evacuated from Hogwarts without giving away the Night Watch’s plan.

As the sun sets, the Night’s Watch infiltrates the school. Professors Tarth and Lannister help sneak them in, and it is they who will enact the plan to rouse and evacuate students at midnight. The Floo Network will be clear at that time, and students will be safely delivered home. It will give the element of surprise, but they are all aware that the Night King will be quick to respond; there is little doubt that he will wait until dawn to attack. It will be a short night for them all.

Arya finds herself pacing the hallways near the kitchens, taking stock of anything that could be potentially used as a weapon. The old suits of armor stoically line the walls, and she eyes the swords and maces they hold. _Not a bad way to take down some Inferi,_ she thinks. They’ve all been briefed that the Night King has amassed an army of undead to fight for him. Gendry had told Arya about his limited encounters with the Inferi, although he had struggled to find the right words. Arya had been a little annoyed; she wanted to know exactly what she was about to face. 

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Gendry appears at the opposite end of the hallway. He looks relieved to spot her.

“Been looking for you,” he says. “Thought you might be up in Gryffindor Tower trying to get some rest.”

“I don’t need rest,” she says forcefully, but Gendry doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’ve got your wand ready,” he explains, pulling it out of his coat.

Arya twirls the wand in her hand, inspecting it. Small, electrical sparks fizzle from both ends. Gendry was right — the dual aspect of the wand does make it feel less stable — but he has improved on the first wand he had made her weeks ago. She looks up at him curiously.

“A bit shorter on both ends, only seven inches. Still oak and dragon’s heartstring, but I’ve tried the ends together with thestral hair in the center. It should be good for a fight, but it’s going to be useless if you want to use it for anything you’re not really committed to. Don’t try to use it for housework or anything,” he adds in a feeble attempt at a joke.

Arya stares at him, unblinking.

“We’re probably going to die tonight.”

Gendry looks unnerved at this solemn pronouncement. He opens his mouth to speak, but Arya continues before he can interrupt. 

“If this is going to be our last night alive, I want to spend it with you.”

Gendry’s face twists. She hurries on.

“I know you’re going to say we’re going to live, but I don’t plan on it. So there’s something I want to do before the end. I want to be with you.”

Gendry’s expression goes soft, and Arya can feel her heart pounding in her ears. It’s a foolish waste of adrenaline — it’s not like she’s in any real danger — and yet the stakes feel impossibly high. 

“Why me?” Gendry asks, and it’s such a ridiculous question that Arya has to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

“I trust you.”

Gendry continues to eye her, his jaw clenching and unclenching. She’s not sure he likes her answer, but it’s the truth. There’s hardly anyone in the world she trusts more than Gendry.

Finally, he sighs.

“I trust you, Arya. If this is what you want…”

“It is,” she says determinedly.

“Do you want to —“

Arya doesn’t quite wait for him to finish and moves in, pressing her lips to his. He’s warmer and more solid than she anticipated, and he responds almost instantaneously to her. There’s something so intensely comforting about his kiss that she almost expects to pull away and find herself back in Stark Manor on their favorite couch together.

When she finally does pull herself away, panting a bit more than she would have expected, they are still in the dark halls of Hogwarts. Gendry gives her a look that makes her blood rush south, and he tugs her into an empty classroom. In the silence of the night, she feels uneasiness creep over her.

“Pulled other girls into a classroom like this before, have you?” she says in a would-be casual tone.

“Uh…” Gendry stammers.

“It’s fine,” Arya says. “One of us should know what we’re doing.”

“Arya, we don’t have to — “

But Arya cuts him off again with another kiss. She doesn’t want to rethink this course of action. She just wants to give in to what she’s wanted for so long, one of her only desires that doesn’t involve revenge and murder. She is not sure it’s possible for her any more, but it would be nice to feel something other than anger or grief.

She presses herself against Gendry, gratified to hear him groaning her name quietly. When she’s satisfied with her efforts, she pulls away and strips off her top. She makes short work of her pants and her undergarments and stands before an open-mouthed Gendry, completely nude.

“I’m not taking your pants off for you,” she says, arching a brow. 

Gendry tears his eyes away from her for long enough to remove most, but not all, of his clothing.

Arya eyes his boxers, which she’s slightly bemused to see have little broomsticks and Bludgers on them. She’s ready to tease him when a horrible realization hits. If they really _do_ die tonight, this is what he’ll be wearing. Her kind, loyal, incredible friend with the Quidditch-themed boxers, dead at the age of twenty-two. The thought takes her breath away, and Gendry, unaware of her inner turmoil, uses her uncharacteristic stillness to press soft kisses against her neck.

Had she not been distracted by the thought that this could _actually_ be their goodbye, she would have pressed on, speeding up the process. They would complete their dalliance and Arya could check the box for having not died a virgin. It wasn’t something she particularly cared about, but she figured everyone always made such a big deal out of it, she might as well. But she was distracted, and Gendry had continued to make his way down her naked form, touching her with a gentleness that she had not thought possible.

His hands are warm and calloused from wand-making, his lips soft against her skin. He kisses one breast and runs his tongue over her nipple, and she lets out an involuntary sigh. He moves his hand up to cup her other breast, rolling her other nipple under his thumb as he continues to lick her. She squirms, both aroused and a little uncomfortable with this amount of attention being paid to her. She gathers her wits around her and decides to flip the script.

She uses her wandless magic to transfigure some desks into a passable bed, and shoves Gendry back onto it. He lands with an inelegant thump, a serious expression on his face, but there is laughter in his eyes. His heated gaze follows her as she crawls on top of him, ready to check this moment off her list. But before she can wriggle herself into position, Gendry stops her.

“This could be our last night on earth, yeah?” he says, slightly breathless. “At least let me make it good for you.”

“I won’t know the difference,” she points out.

Gendry looks annoyed.

“I will,” he says. “And besides, this isn’t just all about you. Maybe I want to make _my_ last night on earth good.”

“Then you probably should’ve slept with someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Gendry’s annoyance deepens.

“I want to be with _you_ ,” he says with conviction. “I trust _you_. I care about _you_. Maybe… maybe this is just something to get out of the way for you but… but I want to make you feel good. Just this once.”

“You always make me feel good,” she says without thinking. 

Gendry’s face softens, and he pulls her down for a kiss so gentle, she feels like she’s stepped into a warm bath. The knots in her muscles loosen, and she lets Gendry slowly twist them both around until she is on her back. She tenses briefly — the sensation of him above her, boxing her in, is an alarming loss of control — but he pushes away from her, settling his weight back on the end of the bed.

“You trust me?” he says with a slight grin.

Arya nods. Her mouth goes dry as she realizes what Gendry is about to do.

She’s fantasized about this, but she was never quite sure how this would feel. She had touched herself before, but it was hard to mimic the sensation of a tongue. While it was possible to learn some handy spells, she was always somewhat paranoid that she would get caught in the library trying to look up masturbation techniques, and she’d much rather get caught reading up about how to get away with murder.

It’s strange for the first few moments, but Gendry finds a rhythm that makes it difficult for Arya to keep her thoughts straight. Every time she starts to collect herself — she needs to double check the Astronomy Tower weaponry, she should booby-trap the greenhouses — Gendry does something that makes her shudder and completely lose her train of thought.

She looks down to see Gendry’s blue eyes locked on her face, and his cheeks twitch into a smile that she recognizes. It’s the grin he makes whenever he thinks he has her beat in Quidditch. She’s about to make a snappish remark when he slowly slides a finger into her center. His expression is cautious — she can tell he’s waiting to see if she wants him to continue — but the dark heat of his eyes drives her absolutely mad. She cants her hips unsteadily, wanting more, and Gendry huffs out a sound like a laugh. He presses his tongue against her and crooks his finger in a steady rhythm. Arya can practically count down his motions until she will completely lose her mind. One, two, three…

She comes with moan and hopes that Gendry has had enough foresight to soundproof the room, because she certainly hadn’t. She closes her eyes as she waits for her legs to stop shaking and her heartbeat to settle. When she opens her eyes again, Gendry is watching her, his expression still heated, but a smile plays at his lips.

“Did I make you feel good then?” 

“Shut up,” she growls, tackling him backwards.

She doesn’t technically know how to do this, but it’s actually pretty easy. Gendry seems more than happy with her movements, groaning in pleasure as she sinks down onto him. She’s surprised that it doesn’t hurt — more like a comfortable stretch — but then again, she can feel just how wet she is from Gendry’s handiwork. She slides up and down experimentally and then freezes.

“Bollocks, I forgot to do a contraceptive charm,” she says suddenly.

“Hm, sounds like you think you’ll survive the night after all.”

Arya glares at Gendry with as much venom as she can muster. It’s slightly tempered by an involuntary gasp she lets out when he sits up to grab his wand. A faint blue light surrounds them, and fades. Arya finds herself nose-to-nose with Gendry, and the intimacy is almost too much. Gendry grins and captures her lips in a bruising kiss, and she relaxes. She can deal with physical intensity. It’s the emotional, staring-into-each-other’s-souls bit she wants to avoid.

It doesn’t take long to regain their tempo, and Gendry is groaning louder than ever as he thrusts into her. Arya closes her eyes and focuses on the feeling of him pressed against her. Every nerve feels electrified, but it’s not the usual electricity inside of her. This is like a firework, a fizzling feeling like champagne building in her. It’s not the explosive power she normally has. It’s not going to help her in a fight, but it feels incredible.

“Arya, I —“ Gendry chokes out.

She nods against him, and reaches down between her legs. He deserves to finish, but she feels pretty close, too. She could just finish herself off…

Gendry, however far gone he is, notices her movements and quickly replaces her hand with his own, pressing down against her. She wraps her legs around him tightly, trying to draw him in impossibly closer. Gendry’s thrusts are erratic; he’s panting and whispering her name, whispering all sorts of things to her, both dirty and sweet. He presses down again and Arya cries out. A few more thrusts and Gendry joins her, collapsing onto their makeshift bed.

Out of breath, they lie side-by-side, staring at the ceiling silently. Arya thinks that perhaps she should say something — to thank him for, indeed, making it a good last night. But she hesitates, wondering if she’s made a mistake. 

She was ready for this to be her last night alive, but that doesn’t mean she _wants_ it to be. 

Instead, Arya curls into Gendry’s side like she had so many nights in Stark Manor. She doesn’t change into a wolf this time. She hopes Gendry will understand what she means by it.

They manage to doze off for a few hours until a loud klaxon sounds through the castle. They hurriedly dress and grab their wands, ready to race to the battlefront but they both pause at the door.

Arya decides that if she’s going to have some last words, she better make them count.

“Don’t die,” she commands. “I trust you.”

“I trust you, Arya.”

As they run down the steps together, she wonders if trust means the same thing to Gendry as it means to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Long Night approaches!


	8. The Long Night

The final battle arrives.

They wait in silence as an army of Inferi marches closer. Arya is glad for the cold; it distracts her from the pounding of her heart. She is not sure if it is fear or excitement that makes her blood thrum through her veins.

She will most likely die tonight. But she will avenge those who have fallen: her father, her mother, Robb, Mycah, and Lommy. She will hurt the people who destroyed her happiness, and she will die satisfied.

Arya Stark does not fear death. She welcomes it.

A dull thudding can be heard as the army approaches in darkness. The members of the Night’s Watch stand poised, waiting. An inhuman shriek echoes, and Arya remembers the sound from her first year at Hogwarts.

The Night King has a dragon.

The tension breaks. The Inferi come into view — the undead are _running_ somehow, an unspeakable mass of bodies hurtling at them — and the Night’s Watch fleet takes to the sky. Daenerys Targaryen rises up on one dragon, Jon on another. Between them, Khal Drogo leads a dozen armed fighters on brooms and they set off, lashes of fire extending from their wands.

But it is not only the Inferi who lurk below. Jets of green light fly upwards, picking off the fliers. Arya spots one rider crash, dead before he hits the ground. 

Arya watches as the first wave of the Inferi reaches the base of the castle. Once they are within close range, she and Night’s Watch will strike.

Arya, new wand in hand, shoots out bolts of white-hot electricity. It works as well on the Inferi as fire; they cower from it, or else fall down, finally still. But still the dead come, and they know no fear or limits. They climb upwards with impossible strength and speed, and Arya’s new weapon is called into question as she is surrounded on both sides. She grabs her wand, not at the end, but in the middle.

Wordlessly, she fires another bolt, only this time, it emerges from both ends of the wand. Inferi on either side of her drop to the ground. She whirls, deadly fire and lightning blasting in front and behind her simultaneously. In seconds, she has taken down twenty Inferi, their bodies piling around her. She spots Davos Seaworth on the rampart above her; he gives her an impressed look before he blasts an Inferius full in the face.

She returns her focus to her work, mowing down wave after wave of Inferi. She feels frustration mounting. She’s kept a list of those she wants to hurt: Cersei Lannister, the Mountain, a half-dozen White Walkers who have killed her fellow Night’s Watch members. But she can barely withstand the interminable Inferi, and she knows that unless she can take down the White Walkers, this battle will never end.

Arya leaps over an Inferius lumbering towards her and sets off across the castle grounds. She makes a racket; she wants to draw attention away from the main battle. If she can herd the Inferi into choke points, it will be easier to thin them out.

On cue, Daenerys and her dragon swoop low, scorching the earth. Arya turns to see a clear fifty feet of charred bodies behind her before the next wave of Inferi. They seem undeterred, and they continue to pursue her. She keeps up her dance, drawing the Inferi into an outward pocket before another dragon — she thinks Jon is riding this one — breathes fire again. 

Just as the same pattern is about to repeat itself, there is another reptilian scream. The Night King’s dragon — a terrifying, undead dragon — has launched itself at Jon, tackling his dragon down into the earth. Arya manages a cushioning charm to break Jon’s fall, and he rolls onto the ground at her feet.

“Thanks,” he says, breathless. 

The dragon lies dead before them. The undead dragon rises, eyeing them, and then opens it jaws wide. Jon and Arya dive apart, separated by what should be flames, but feels like ice. They’re forced to dart in different directions, which thankfully seems to confuse the dragon. It screams in fury, but it can’t seem to spot either of them.

Unfortunately, Arya can’t spot Jon either, so she just has to hope he’s still alive. She tries not to think about it as she races back to the castle. 

Enough of this Inferi nonsense — she has to take down the White Walkers if she wants to end this. 

As she moves towards the castle, she spots some familiar figures battling. Ygritte is hexing anything that moves, her red hair blazing in the firelight. Professors Tarth and Lannister make an almost comical sight. They stand back-to-back, almost three feet separating them in height, but their spellwork is perfectly in sync. Above it all, fighting atop a pile of bodies, stands Gendry, wand in his right hand and Beater bat in his left. The Inferi seem particularly determined to take him down, but he does not stop. One arm fires hexes while the other swings mercilessly. 

Arya does not stop either. She keeps running until she reaches the entry to the Great Hall. The White Walkers are here.

There are few things the Night King treasured. Most thought he was simply hell-bent on destruction, taking down everyone and everything that stood in his path. But Hogwarts was an exception; Jon had somehow known that the Night King would fight to keep it under his control. Even if by the end of the fighting all that remained of Hogwarts were the stones, it would still be of value to the Night King. As long as the Night’s Watch occupied Hogwarts, they could defend it, and thus the White Walkers had to infiltrate the walls eventually.

Arya jumps into the fray. Two White Walkers drop dead, but her presence turns three wizards against her, and she’s forced to dodge behind a pillar. 

The fighting is breathless, curses flying around the hall, screams echoing. But then a shout comes, and the White Walkers appear to retreat. Arya pokes her head cautiously from behind the pillar and finds that they really _are_ retreating. There are a few surprised cheers, but then a high, cold voice booms throughout the grounds.

“ _You have fought valiantly, but your efforts are futile. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for Hogwarts; I do not wish to spill magical blood. Give me Jon Snow and none shall be harmed. Give me Jon Snow, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Jon Snow, and you will be rewarded. You have one hour._ ”

The voice dies away, and silence echoes.

“Give him Jon Snow?” It’s one of Gendry’s old Hufflepuff friends, Jack. “He can’t be bloody serious.”

“He’s the Night King, mate,” adds Anguy in a worried tone. “Don’t think he does things for laughs.”

Arya feels panic rising. She can’t stop fighting now. She hasn’t finished her list. Worse, she fears that Jon is going to do something really, really stupid. She loves her cousin, but he can be a noble idiot at the worst possible moments.

She sets out to look for him, but finds only horrors instead. At the foot of the staircase lie the bodies of the Hound and the Mountain. They had clearly slain each other in a fight, and Arya is shocked to find that there are tears on her face.

Her stomach lurches. She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want to die here, not today, not now. She had thought that all she cared about was vengeance. It was why she had gone to Uagoudou, and it was why she had returned to England. But the Hound had gotten vengeance on his brother and he was just as dead as anyone else. He would never scold her in a gruff tone again, and it hurt to think about.

She wants to run away, to flee this place, but she can’t. The remains of her family and friends are here; she cannot leave them to die. Fear overwhelms her in a way it never has before, and though her mind races, she cannot hold on to a single thought.

Minutes pass until a familiar face appears in front of her.

“Arya, give us a hand, would you?”

Shireen is absolutely covered in blood. Arya jumps, her heart in her throat. Shireen looks down.

“Ugh,” she says, waving her wand. The blood vanishes instantly. 

“You’re not hurt?”

“No, we’re bringing people up to the Hospital Wing. There were some… casualties.”

Arya, horrified, realizes what Shireen needs her help for. There is a pile of bodies that has been magically lifted to the doorstep of the castle.

“We have to get them inside quickly,” Shireen explains. “Or else the Night King can turn them into Inferi. That kind of dark magic won’t work inside Hogwarts itself, but out on the grounds…”

Arya springs to action even as she feels vomit rising in her throat. Each body she moves feels like a punch to the gut: Beric Dondarian, Grenn and Pyp from the Gryffindor Quidditch team, the Hound. The second her work is done, Arya flees to the Great Hall. She fights her way through the room without speaking to anyone, even as those around her try to regroup and discuss battle tactics. Instead, she ducks down behind the head table where the professors usually sit.

“Hello, Arya.”

Bran, looking relaxed in his hovering wheelchair, sits at the center of the table. He is holding a strange-looking wand.

“What’s that?”

Bran gives her a distant, enigmatic smile.

“What the Night King came to Hogwarts for.”

“A wand? Doesn’t he already have one? What’s he need…”

But her voice dies away as she catches sight of the mark engraved at the base.

“I thought…” she croaks. “I thought the Elder Wand was a myth. Those stories Dad told us…”

“It turns out they’re true,” Bran says calmly. “You know about Jon’s cloak, of course. I believe he’s in possession of the Resurrection Stone as well. Technically, this wand is Jon’s, too, although he has no intention of keeping it.”

“But it’s the most powerful wand in the world!”

“Hmm. What makes a man powerful?”

“A weapon like that certainly helps.”

Bran gives her another faint smile. She feels like she’s failing a test from a very vague professor and she doesn’t like it much.

“The power of an object is merely our projection of the idea of power. This wand brings with it the _sense_ of power, but power itself comes from within.”

“Yeah, try explaining that to the Night King when he comes to take it.”

“I will.”

Arya pales.

“Bran, don’t be stupid. You can’t fight him. He’s… He… He’ll _kill_ you.”

“I know, Arya. Don’t be afraid. I do not fear death.”

Arya, who had thought the exact same thing mere hours ago, wants to scream. Bran _should_ fear death, they all should. But before she can say anything to that effect a voice booms through the grounds again.

“ _Jon Snow is dead_.”

Arya’s heart freezes to ice. She rushes out of the Great Hall and down the stone steps, members of the Night’s Watch hot on her heels. There are shouts of shock and horror, a terrible scream of anguish. Arya, cursing her height, pushes her way to the front.

Jon’s body lies at the Night King’s feet, unmoving.

It takes everything in her power not to vomit. People around her are staring, horrified, at the scene before them. A few are quietly weeping. Ygritte and Sam are standing ahead of everyone else — it had been Ygritte who had screamed. Sam holds her back so she cannot rush to Jon’s side.

Arya realizes that before now, she had never actually _seen_ the Night King before. His face is so pale, he looks almost translucent, blue veins prominent around his strangely flat face. He is tall and imposing. Arya feels a stab of icy terror at the sight of his empty, evil grin.

There is some shouting within the crowd, but Arya feels deaf. She vaguely recognizes a voice yelling “Mormont’s Army!” but the sound is muted. Instead, her head fills with screaming — Robb’s anguish at her father’s death, the sound of her mother being murdered, the cries of suffering of everyone she has ever heard. She wants this to _end_ , to be free of this constant pain. Everyone had assumed that Jon would be the one to end it, but now…

She blinks, taking in the scene before her. In her distraction, something very strange has happened. Sam has somehow gotten hold of a _sword_ , and he is swinging down to slice off the head of an enormous snake. The Night King lets out a scream of fury, but it’s drowned out by shouts from the crowd. 

Jon’s body has disappeared.

Chaos breaks out. As expected, the Night King and White Walkers make a move for the castle, blasting at people standing on the steps. Arya weaves her way towards the battle. Her heart is pounding with adrenaline, but her mind feels clearer now. She knows what she has to do. 

Cersei Lannister, her long, blonde hair flowing behind her, is racing after the Night King, her brother Jaime at her side. Arya tries to follow, but the stairs are jammed with fighters. Arya lets out a snarl of frustration and hexes several White Walkers, but it makes barely any impact on the blockage. It’s time to get creative.

Few people have seen her transform, but the Night’s Watch members are all aware of her wolf form. Still, the crowd seems to pause and watch as she uses her powerful, lupine legs to propel herself up the stone railing of the steps. There are some terrified screams of White Walkers who see her barreling towards them, which provides an opportunity for a Night’s Watch member to strike them down. Arya doesn’t slow her pace, but lunges up into the main hall, her paws skidding against the smooth marble floor.

She spots the Lannister twins and the Night King making their way into the Great Hall. She goes to follow, but a masked White Walker jumps in front of her, raising his wand. Instinctively, she transfigures herself back into her human form, making herself a smaller target. It’s good timing; a jet of deadly green light streaks by her head where her massive shoulders would have been.

She uses the slippery floor to her advantage, sliding down onto her knees towards her opponent. Before he can aim again, Arya has already pulled out a knife. She prefers killing with magic, but muggle means can be even more effective. He howls in agony as she slices the inside of his outstretched leg. Hot blood spurts from his femoral artery, and Arya rises hastily to her feet. She doesn’t have time to watch him bleed out.

She catches sight of herself in a large mirror before entering the hall. Her clothes are covered in soot from the dragon’s fire, her hands and face covered in the blood of her foes and her friends. She looks like death itself.

As she crosses the threshold of the Great Hall, her instinct is to run towards Cersei Lannister. It has been her greatest ambition to murder the witch that killed Ned Stark, and she is ready to do it when something catches her eye.

The Night King is headed for Bran.

Bran has not moved from his position on the raised dais. He watches the battle before him with a serene expression. The Elder Wand lays in his lap, prominently displayed. Bran makes no move to defend himself as the Night King stalks towards him.

Arya does not hesitate. The idea of chasing after Cersei is beyond ludicrous; she must protect Bran first. Then she can deal with that bitch.

She takes a moment to calculate the stealthiest trajectory so as not to alert the Night King to her presence. The chaos of the Great Hall is excellent cover, but Arya still moves slower than she’d like. She will only get one chance to strike: she must not miss. 

As she draws even with the dais, she is distracted again. Cersei’s cruel laughter rings out across the hall. Sansa is facing her in a duel.

“Come to die just like your father?” Cersei taunts. “Don’t worry, you’ll join him soon enough.”

She fires a jet of green light, and Sansa barely dodges it. Arya freezes, unsure of which sibling to save, paralyzed as the Night King draws closer still to Bran. Arya’s heart leaps as Sansa raises her wand high — too high — and strikes.

Cersei laughs when she sees the trajectory of Sansa’s curse. It’s unbelievably off-target. Arya knows that Sansa is no warrior, but she has learned that it is foolish to underestimate Sansa, especially in a fight. There is a crackling sound echoing high in the hall. 

Sansa had not missed. 

Arya watches as realization dawns on Cersei’s face. Jaime Lannister raises his wand to protect himself and his sister, but it is too late. A huge chunk of the ceiling crumbles inwards, the ancient stones plummeting straight into the floor. They land with such force that the floor shakes; a few witches and wizards stumble in the aftershocks. Cersei and Jaime Lannister are crushed instantaneously.

Arya cannot take any satisfaction that Cersei is dead. Perhaps it is because it is not by her own hand, but she feels absolutely nothing. 

She had thought that Cersei Lannister’s death would feel righteous, that she could feel close to her father again. But the gaping maw in her chest is empty, and she cannot imagine a scene that reminds her less of her father. Ned Stark had been brave and kind, the opposite of this nightmare in front of her. He had fought against the Night King and White Walkers, but he had done it to protect the people he loved. He had not fought for vengeance. 

Arya stumbles as she turns to pursue the Night King again, wondering if perhaps every moment of her life since her father’s death has been a waste of time.

The Night King seems hardly perturbed by the death of his two most loyal allies. Arya knows that to a man like the Night King — if one could even call him a man any more — people were just a means to an end. His focus on the Elder Wand is complete. Arya knows now why the Night King would come here; to have such a weapon in the heart of the most magically reinforced building in all of England… the Night King would have a fortress of absolute power from which to rule.

Bran remains eerily calm in the face of the Night King’s approach. Arya uses it to her advantage. She knows that Bran can see her creeping up towards the dais, but he does not acknowledge her even in the slightest. The Night King raises his wand slowly. There are shouts in the crowd, and Arya sees movement in her peripheral vision. Jon, alive and whole, pushes through the horde, shouting for the Night King to face him. 

The Night King does not turn. Jon shouts again, desperation in his voice. If the Night King does not lower his wand, Bran will be dead before Jon can act.

Arya strikes.

She leaps from her position at the edge of the dais, her dual-ended wand lifted in her right hand. The Killing Curse has barely formed itself in her mind when the Night King spins towards her. With lightning speed, his wand fixes her in place. Her own wand goes flying from her outstretched hand, shattering in two at the force of the Night King’s magic. Her arm is frozen, and her eyes widen in shock.

She tries twisting herself away, but the spell holds her with a grip she has never encountered before. She has fought plenty of wizards and witches, but never one with this much raw power. She hears Jon’s shout again, and several screams from the crowd.

“What a pity to kill a talented, pureblood witch,” the Night King says in his high, icy voice.

“Let her go!” Jon shouts. “It’s me you want. Let’s finish this, once and for all!”

The Night King smirks at Jon. White Walkers and the Night’s Watch members stare, waiting for Jon or the Night King to strike.

“This was always about you and me,” Jon continues. “‘Neither can live while the other survives.’”

Arya isn’t quite sure what Jon is talking about, but it gets the Night King’s attention. He turns to face Jon, but his grip on Arya remains absolute.

“You know why they call you the ‘Chosen One?’” the Night King spits. “Because _I_ chose you. _I_ brought about the start of the prophecy, and _I_ shall bring it to its conclusion.”

“Let her go,” Jon repeats. “And we can finish this.”

The Night King smirks again. Arya knows exactly what is about to happen.

Arya remembers when they were young and Jon would share his dessert with her, even his favorite chocolate cake. It had been Jon who carried her when she was tired on hikes, or who bandaged her skinned knees. Jon had helped her sneak around the house for a midnight snack so her mother wouldn’t find out. Jon would do anything for Arya, and even the Night King could see that his love for his cousin was a weakness to exploit. The Night King would kill Arya and Jon, furious with grief, would be reckless in a fight. Arya was about to die. Jon Snow was about to die. The wizarding world would fall into darkness.

The Night King moves to attack, the slightest twitch in his wand before he sends a Killing Curse to stop Arya’s heart. It’s all she needs.

With every ounce of strength she possesses, she wrenches her left hand upwards to meet her right and blasts a bolt of lightning straight at the Night King’s chest. 

The world goes blindingly white. It’s more power than she’s ever felt before, flowing through her blood and out from her extended hands. The air crackles and sparks with her energy. A scream of fury and pain rips from her throat. It echoes in the silence of the hall as she drops her arms, staggering forward.

The Night King twitches before her on the ground, dancing in a lifeless rhythm. A burn the size of a Quaffle is burned into his chest, his clothing and skin singed away. His pale blue eyes stare blankly at the ceiling as his jerking subsides. Finally, the motion stops, and the Great Hall falls completely silent.

Arya turns to look at Bran. His expression is as serene as ever, but his eyes sparkle with actual emotion for once. She’s not quite sure what it is; his lips move, but she is deaf to the sound.

The volume of the room slowly increases as her pounding adrenaline wears off, and she only realizes Jon has run up to her seconds before her wraps her in his arms.

“You did it,” he whispers in disbelief. “You bloody did it, Arya.”

Arya is too stunned to speak. She stands rooted to the spot as Sansa joins them, throwing her arms around Arya and Jon, sobbing. More bodies join them, a throng of people crying and shouting and singing. Arya can barely feel any of it; it takes all of her energy just to stay upright.

Eventually, the mass of people sobers enough to realize there are wounded to be tended to and prisoners to be dealt with. They peel away, leaving Arya and Jon alone again. Jon turns to look at Sam and Ygritte — clearly his presence is needed elsewhere — and Arya nods at him to go. Once all eyes are off of her, she sinks to the floor at the foot of Bran’s wheelchair.

“We’re safe now, Arya. You can rest.”

She’s unconscious before her head is on the floor.

—

She wakes as the sun is setting, although she’s not sure if it’s the same day or another one entirely. It feels like she’s been asleep for a lifetime, and she could still do with more rest, so she rolls over and falls back asleep.

Around five in the morning, she wakes for good. She’s in the Hospital Wing, and the beds around her are packed. She has a vague memory of being carried up here, but she spots Gendry in one of the cots down the way, his leg heavily bandaged. No way had he been the one to carry her up here with his leg like that. She must have gotten confused with her older memories.

She’s still achy from the physical exertion of the battle, but is otherwise in one piece. She uses the quiet of the early morning to sneak out to the grounds to get some fresh air.

The grounds are eerily silent. The earth is scorched and pockmarked from the battle, dark stains of blood speckling the remaining grass. She regrets coming out here; the contrast with the Hogwarts of her memories makes the sight of it in ruins all the more painful.

She hears footsteps behind her, but she doesn’t bother turning around. She knows who it is.

“I saw you as a wolf,” Jon says, coming to stand next to her. A vivid red cut slashes down his face, but it seems to be mostly healed over with magic. “Ned would be proud.”

There are some wounds that magic could not fix.

“What do we need to do now?” she deflects.

“Still plenty of Dark wizards about, I suppose,” Jon says with a sigh. “They’ll be going into hiding, lick their wounds. But they’ll be back. And we’ll have to face them.”

Arya can feel the desire for vengeance still floating somewhere within her, but it’s weak. She’s tired, and not from just from the battle. Every day since Robb and her mother were murdered, she has fought to stay alive. She doesn’t feel like fighting any more.

Muscle memory drives her forward. One foot in front of the other, she walks with Jon across the battlefield, idly waving her hand to smooth over chunks of dirt and uprooted trees. Together, they spend most of the morning fixing the grounds, although their efforts hardly make a dent in the damage. They talk sparingly, but Jon seems to finally open up again. He tells her a bit about his adventures with Sam and Ygritte, stories that a younger Arya would’ve loved to hear from her favorite cousin. Now, she nods along quietly, only asking enough questions to prod Jon along.

They continue their work after breakfast, and again after lunch. It’s the best job to prevent other people from talking to them. It’s only as the afternoon starts to fade that Jon turns to Arya, puzzled.

“I’ve been telling you about the last four years all day, and I don’t know a single thing that’s happened to you.”

“Nothing’s happened to me.”

“Like hell, it hasn’t. You threw _lightning_ , Arya. You killed the bloody Night King!”

“Sorry,” Arya says tonelessly. “I guess that was supposed to be your job, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t care about that,” Jon says sourly. “I thought he was going to _kill_ you. Never been so scared in my life, Arya.”

“I’m fine.”

“Hey,” Jon says, clambering over some scorched shrubs to face her. “Look, I know neither of us is really big on talking about… feelings and all that, but whatever you’ve been through… you know you can talk to me about it, right?”

He’s wrong, of course. Arya can’t tell anyone what she’s done, about who she has been. She killed people for money, she abandoned her family, she ran away. 

She’s not someone worth listening to.

“Okay,” she says quietly, knowing it’s what Jon wants to hear. “I think the feast is starting soon. We should go inside.”

Jon seems mollified, and they head up the stairs together.

The feast is already in full swing by the time they arrive. A tankard of butterbeer is thrust into Arya’s hands and several people attempt to pull her into loud conversations. She manages to duck them in favor of food, and eats as rapidly as possible, avoiding eye contact with anyone. Her silence makes her invisible, and people seem eager to clap Jon on the back and laud his heroism. Arya can tell it makes Jon a little uncomfortable to be praised, but he’s at least used to people staring at him by now.

Arya, on the other hand, uses the opportunity to slip away. She leaves behind her food and butterbeer. Even though she’s sure it is delicious, she could not really taste anything at all.

She goes out to the ruined Quidditch pitch to be alone. Two of the three goal posts are splintered and cracked, and a section of the stands is faintly smoking. She takes advantage of the third goal post, the central one still standing, and practices shooting fireballs through it. She’s feeling a little too drained for lightning strikes at the moment.

A twig cracks behind her and she whirls around, fire at the ready.

“Don’t shoot!”

It’s Gendry, both hands lifted in surrender. His tone in teasing and his eyes are crinkled in a smile. He limps a little, but he seems otherwise unscathed.

Arya notices for the first time all day that a shocking numbness has taken hold of her. She knows that the normal thing to do would be to run to hug Gendry, to inhale his comforting scent and thank the gods that he had survived. But she hasn’t been normal all day: she had barely spoken to Jon, had merely nodded at Sansa, and even when Rickon had arrived, leaping with joy and demanding to know every detail of what had happened, she had merely shrugged and gone back to her menial tasks. She had thought this battle had been about protecting the people she cared about — so why didn’t it feel like she cared about them at all?

Gendry seems unaware of her blank stare, and lowers himself onto a bench that creaks ominously under his weight. When he is satisfied it won’t break under him, he turns back to her, still smiling.

“Looks like we lived through the night after all, eh?”

“Looks like it.”

Gendry gives her a a skeptical grin.

“It’s nighttime, it’s freezing, and everyone’s celebrating. You should be celebrating with them.”

“I am celebrating.”

She throws a fireball to emphasize her point.

“So am I,” Gendry says, rising from his seat. He seems to be filled with a sort of nervous energy. Arya is about to ask him if he’s had too much butterbeer when he steps close and pulls her in for a kiss.

Something in her stirs, but it is a shadow of any passion she felt the night before. His touch is warm, but she can only feel the cold spring night around her.

Gendry steps back, his smile triumphant.

“We’re free now,” he says eagerly. “The Night King is gone, and we get to rebuild. I can start a wand shop, you can become an Auror like you always wanted. And we can be together if… if that’s what you want.”

Slowly, Gendry’s excitement dies and his smile slips. His face shrinks in worry as he watches her. Arya can feel the slackness of her face. She knows she should smile at him, but she can’t remember how to move the muscles needed to do it.

She leans up for another kiss, soft and gentle. She’s glad that she can’t really feel anything. This would hurt if she could feel it.

“You’ll be a great wandsmith, Gendry. Anyone would be lucky to get one of your wands. But I can’t be an Auror. That’s not who I am any more. I’m sorry.”

Gendry stares at her, his brow creased in confusion. She can see emotion building — sadness and anger at her rejection — but she turns away before he can respond.

She leaves the Quidditch pitch and, once again, walks out of her own life into nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That angst tag really getting a workout here. Looks like someone is going to have to deal with some trauma, STAT.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will up up soon :)


	9. East to West

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's unpack some trauma, shall we? One last long chapter for you guys (and a little epilogue ;)

Arya Stark keeps her name this time, but makes little effort to use it much. She lives in a Muggle neighborhood in Minsk, and, given that she speaks very little Belarusian, does not have much opportunity to introduce herself to people. The silence suits her just fine. At least, this is what she tells herself when she hears her neighbors enjoying dinner with their families, or laughing with friends.

In her line of work, it is best not to have friends. 

She is often away from her flat for long stretches, hunting down human traffickers hiding in the darkest pockets of Eastern Europe. She has an idea of where to start given her misadventures the previous winter, and she is disappointed, but not surprised, that the industry is booming. She is kept quite busy; there is no time for anything but work in her life.

She exists on the fringes of the law and the wizarding world. She focuses her efforts on wizards exploiting muggles, but she has no access to either muggle or magical databases to work from. She relies on her wits and her powers of observations. Once she makes a solid case, she leaves anonymous tips for various police forces. She is often dissatisfied by the speed, or lack thereof, of her collaborators, but she has no choice. If she wanted them to move faster, she’d have to join their ranks, and Arya is not eager to be a part of a team anymore.

Her works suits her, though, and she helps turn over several stones, exposing the dark figures underneath to be apprehended for their crimes. She usually finds a perch to watch the raids surreptitiously. It’s worth it to see the poor souls that are saved in the process. It helps drive her forward.

And yet, as summer fades into autumn, she feels sluggish. The numbness that has plagued her on and off since the defeat of the Night King becomes more frequent. She starts to lose sleep, and soon she can hardly sleep at all. She feels cold all the time — probably because she’s renting a cheap attic room in Minsk in November — but even in her wolf form, she shivers.

At a certain point, even a true Northerner like Arya gets sick of the cold. She goes to the warmest place she can think of and swaps her fur coat for a sun hat. 

Thailand is lush and humid, and Arya’s hair frizzes up the moment she arrives in Chiang Mai. The first two weeks are good: she gorges on the cheap street food every night, zips around town on a scooter, and spends her evenings watching huge storm clouds rumble over the landscape. There’s plenty of work for her to do in the reaches of Southeast Asia, but she has to get a lay of the land first. She paces around the small city, telling herself that as soon as she gets the map of town in her head she can move to bigger cities to begin investigations. She wants to make sure she knows how to get around her safe haven if trouble should follow her home.

On a whim, she decides to get a massage. It’s not her style to go to a touristy location, but she figures that she should see what all the fuss is about. It’s cheap, even on her meager savings, and she’s heard good things. Why not?

For an hour, a woman even smaller than Arya pounds against her knotted muscles and walks across her back. It has been eight months since anyone has touched Arya, and although she tells herself the tears in her eyes are from the physical pressure being exerted against her poor, aching muscles, she knows she is lying. She goes straight home after and weeps and isn’t sure why.

She decides that perhaps her difficulties lie in the fact that she has been living in places where English is not commonly spoken. If she could talk to people more easily, she’d get more work done. She keeps moving. 

Sydney is hot in December, but there are plentiful Christmas decorations of snow and Santa Claus. Arya finds it vaguely amusing, especially given she spends most of her days on the hot sands of Manly Beach. She does her best to stay shaded — the sun is blistering most of the day, and even her surreptitious sunscreen spells need to be recast every hour — but she can’t resist plunging into the sparkling waters every so often. She delights in the outdoor showers on the beach, rinsing off the salt before she returns to the hostel nearby.

The locals are friendly enough — they are certainly eager to share a pint with her at any given time of day — but Arya demurs. She had thought she missed talking with people, but now she fears she’s forgotten how to hold a normal conversation. When strangers politely ask what she’s doing in Australia, she clams up. She can’t explain what she does for work — ‘vigilante witch’ probably would not go over very well — and when they inquire if she is alone, she feels even worse. She has made the choice to be alone, but their questions make her regret this decision for the first time.

In a fit of pique, she leaves Sydney after just a week. She tells herself she’s annoyed by all these strangers trying to talk to her, but the truth is that their polite inquiries make her second-guess herself. She flees to a new locale, one where she certainly won’t be able to make small talk with people around her. Besides, it’s far too hot in the Southern Hemisphere. The last few weeks of sun may have been enjoyable for a while, but she’s a Northern girl at heart.

Snow falls in gentle flakes over Osaka when Arya arrives. The cold is a shock after her sojourn to warmer climes, but it is welcome. Arya bundles herself tightly in her favorite warm coat, wandering the streets with locals and tourists enjoying the holiday season. New Year’s Day is one of great celebration, and Arya watches as families bustle about town. She makes the mistake of trying to visit a shrine, which is packed with people dressed in traditional garb, making offerings secure good fortune in the new year. Arya usually dislikes crowds, but something makes her stay for a while, watching the small familial dramas unfolding around her: a child misbehaving, a young couple laughing together, an old man shuffling along, holding hands with his toddling grandson.

At this point in her travels, Arya has abandoned work. She feels a nagging guilt about this — surely she should be putting her skills to use while people out in the world are suffering — but she can’t bring herself to begin again. She tries to rationalize this, too. She just needs to find the right place to settle down, and once she does that, she’ll be back to normal. None of this spontaneous weeping business.

Ever since her strange experience in Chiang Mai, Arya would find herself tearing up in the oddest of places: watching a man buy his children ice lollies on the beach, a group of friends singing ‘Happy Birthday’ in a bar, a couple kissing on a snow-covered bridge. It’s an unnerving new development in a string of uncontrolled responses. Back in Minsk, as she had spiraled towards insomnia, her hands had started to tingle. It had felt a bit like when she used her lightning strikes, although she had not fired one since killing the Night King. The tingling traveled down her legs and into her feet. Her heart would race, but taking her pulse only measured a mild increase in heart rate. Why, then, had her blood been pounding so loudly in her ears?

It had been the real reason why she had left the cold in the first place, although it had taken her a month of warm weather to admit it. The tingling sensations had abated somewhat, but now there was this unexpected crying issue. She kept trying to push through, to escape these strange feelings, but she was running out of places to go.

She tries again, strolling around town looking for distractions. She finds herself in shops buying gifts that she has no intention of sending, but she can’t stop herself: a pair of cookbooks featuring Japanese pastries for Sansa and Hot Pie, some self-inking sea-eagle feathers for Bran and Shireen, two gleaming Beaters bats for Gendry and Rickon. She finds a beautiful notebook embossed with gingko leaves and buys one for herself and one for Jon. She has no idea what she would even want to write in it, and when she returns to her cramped hotel room, she stares at the pile of presents.

She’s lonely.

It’s the first time she allows herself to think it, and a dam of tears that has been threatening to break for the past several weeks bursts forth. She cries and cries. She’s weeping so hard that she chokes, her misery echoing in the tiny room. She’s sure her neighbors can hear her, but she can’t stop. It feels like hours of anguished crying, but she doesn’t bother to look at the clock. When she has finally exhausted herself, she falls asleep curled on the bed, the gifts she has purchased crowding her into a small corner.

She packs her bags again in the morning. Time to start fresh again.

—

Arya may have admitted to herself that she was lonely, but it did not mean she was ready to face what that actually meant. After all, most people in the world were lonely. She was in good company.

Still, she decides to go somewhere gloomy to fit her troubled thoughts. She picks San Francisco, infamous for its fog. It has a thriving wizarding community mixed with muggles, which is Arya’s preferred living arrangement. Always nice to be able to find Pepper-Up Potion and a muggle pizza parlor in the same neighborhood.

She takes her Time-Lag potion before using the Portkey to take her across the Pacific. She has to use her real identity — American security is as stringent as ever — and she knows this means that for the first time in months, her family might be able to track her down. She wonders if it would upset her more if they found her or if they didn’t.

She is shocked to arrive in the heart of the San Franciscan wizarding community to dazzling sunlight. A cold wind whips through her hair, but the sky is breathtakingly blue. No fog in sight.

“It’s a common misconception.” A muggle shopkeeper near her hostel is wrapping up a new pair of Doc Marten boots for her, idly answering her question about the weather. “It _does_ get foggy here, but it’s actually worst in the summer. It gets hot out in the Central Valley, which pulls the fog in from the Pacific. Most tourists freeze their asses off by the Golden Gate Bridge in the summer — they can’t even see it with all the fog!”

His chattering reminds her painfully of Hot Pie. She thanks him, and returns to her hostel to tug on her new shoes. Their matte, black leather at least matches her feelings a little better than the California sunshine. 

She sets off to explore. The wizarding community blends in with the rest of the crowds in the Haight Ashbury district; some wizards wear their regular cloaks out and hardly anyone bats an eye. Every few steps, she catches a whiff of marijuana, which no one seems to mind, either. She can’t help a grin. She likes this strange city.

There are many things to like about San Francisco in Arya’s opinion, first and foremost being the number of dogs. She moves south from Haight Street to an area called Duboce Park, a canine heaven. She grabs a coffee from a nearby café and watches for an hour as dogs of all shapes and sizes cavort merrily through the grass. There is a play structure for children nearby as well, but the dogs outnumber the humans three to one.

She continues her walk, feeling slightly more cheerful. She wanders into the Castro, where rainbow flags festoon every shop window and lamppost. She keeps meandering until she reaches Dolores Park, where she climbs to the highest corner overlooking the rest of the city. The skyscrapers of the Financial District and the distant Bay Bridge glimmer the afternoon sunlight. Arya settles herself into the grassy hillside. Despite the chilly wind, the park is fairly full, mostly of young people like Arya enjoying the afternoon with friends. There are dogs here, too, and they occasionally wander over to Arya to be petted before prancing back to their owners nearby.

Arya spends her afternoon eavesdropping. She tries not to smirk too much when someone says something particularly American — every time she hears the words ‘awesome’ or ‘bro’ she has to suppress a snicker — but it’s an interesting way to learn about a new city. It often feels like she’s listening to another language entirely. There is a large group near her that frequently discusses work, dropping phrases of incomprehensible jargon she assumes is related to muggle technology. She wishes someone more interesting would sit near her; she’s rather comfortable, and her feet are tried from walking in her new boots.

A trio of friends settles in behind her, opening a bottle of wine to pass around. It becomes immediately clear that they are debriefing on personal issues, and Arya almost leaves. She doesn’t want to hear someone complain about a misbehaving boyfriend — that’s more of Sansa’s thing — but the conversation takes an unexpected turn.

“I just feel like he couldn’t support me through my grief, y’know? I don’t expect him to like, _carry_ me emotionally or whatever, but just some like, basic compassion, y’know?”

“Totally,” agree the other friends.

Arya frowns. The idiosyncrasies of the Californian dialect aside, the topic of discussion interests her. Arya has never heard anyone speak openly about grieving before.

“I mean, I know I had a long time to say goodbye and to be prepared. But like, you can’t ever _really_ be prepared to say goodbye to a parent, right?”

Arya’s heart leaps into her throat. She holds her breath.

“Especially at our age,” one of the friend agrees. “I get if he didn’t know how to be super sympathetic — it’s not like most of us have gone through trauma like that — but he could at least try to be _empathetic_.”

“Exactly! He just expected since it’s been a year that I would just be like, _over it_.”

“Ugh,” the third friend chimes in. “That’s so little time! And like, how can someone just be ‘over’ their dad dying?”

Arya exhales slowly, trying to keep her heart beat steady.

“Yeah. I mean, I loved him, but he just could _not_ understand that grief isn’t linear. I’m still going to have bad days sometimes.”

“Everyone does!”

“Totally!”

“Anyway,” the woman behind Arya says with a sigh. “I didn’t mean to take over the conversation. I’m just glad I have you guys to talk about it.”

“Aww, of course!”

There seems to be some sort of group hug happening behind Arya. She wipes tears from her face, surprised and annoyed that they have appeared. She gets up abruptly and strides down the hill away from the conversation.

She’s not sure why she’s angry until she notices she’s glaring at every group of friends she passes. She blinks, realizing that it is jealousy poisoning her stare. She’s jealous of the grieving girl for getting to speak words to her pain, for having friends who will listen to her. She had even mentioned all these strange ideas about grief — timelines and support and all that. What had all that been about?

Arya stops, realizing she has walked several blocks from the park without noticing. She’s standing in front of some large windows framed in teal, shelves of books obscuring the lower halves of the panes. A sign above her reads ‘Dog-Eared Books’ with a crude drawing of a black dog. Arya steps inside.

The used bookstore is fairly busy, but Arya steps deftly around the other customers until she finds what she seeks. She remembers, years ago, spending hours in the Uagadou library, pouring over tomes of Dark Arts. She had learned quickly then, so why not now?

There is a small section of books that deal with self-help around grief. She reads the back cover of one and almost immediately gives up — it seems like a waste of time, or worse, _weak_ to admit she seeks help in this realm. But then she thinks of the friends in the park who had shared so readily in their friend’s pain, and she picks up another book. She barely skims the contents before going up to the counter to purchase it. She feels mortified that anyone would see her buying such a thing, but the clerk barely bats an eye. Arya leaves with her book tucked into her coat pocket, and finds a quiet alleyway to apparate back to her hostel.

She doesn’t intend to skip dinner, but she is so engrossed in the book that she hardly notices the passage of time. Here are answers to things she had not even thought to question. She learns about anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder. There are maladaptive coping strategies that Arya has unknowingly incorporated into her own life, namely blowing up all her relationships and running away at the first sign of trouble. She pulls out the gingko-leaf journal from Osaka and starts a list.

_Things I Need to be Emotionally Healthy_

She feels ridiculous having written this, and shoves the journal back into her bag. Still, she can’t stop thinking about the book, and when she wakes up the next morning, she takes it to a café and finishes it. Then she goes back to the same bookshop and buys three more books.

She spends a week in San Francisco, most of it in parks and cafés reading books about grief management. When she’s feeling brave, she pulls out her notebook and adds ideas or useful quotes to it. She tries making polite small talk with baristas and finds that she has not completely lost the ability to converse with other people.

After a week, it becomes clear that there is a block in her path. In order to move forward, she needs to go back.

—

If it had been fog she was after, she should have just gone to London in the first place. 

As the plane taxis on the tarmac, Arya gazes out at the low, grey sky. She had decided to take a muggle airplane for two reasons. First, she thought it would give her a bit more time to plan her arrival: where to go, who to see first, how to apologize to everyone for leaving without so much as a goodbye. This had already failed spectacularly. She had been so exhausted after months racing around the globe, that she had managed to sleep for most of the eleven hour journey in her uncomfortable seat.

The second reason, however, does pay off. She suspects that the wizarding community will attempt to keep tabs on her, and arriving via muggle methods puts them at a disadvantage. As she exits customs at Heathrow, she notices two men following her at a would-be relaxed pace. They are dressed like muggle businessmen, but their watches are clearly magical. Arya can spot a good reflective charm from a mile away.

She makes a show of standing in front of a large sign labeled ‘London Underground,’ tracing her finger over the map. The two men pretend to consult another map near her, but she can see out of the corner of her eye that they are taking notes of her intended route.

As the train pulls into the heart of London, the car becomes crowded. The morning commute is beginning in earnest, and she is surrounded by irritable men and women on their way to work. She rides the train all the way to King’s Cross Station, by which point the men following her look very annoyed at all the muggles who are squeezed up against them in the car. 

Arya steps out confidently and makes her way down the platform. She’s very pleased with her travel bag, a muggle backpack that she has modified with a Load-Lightening charm. It helps her weave through the crowd without being slowed by a heavy suitcase. She checks the large mirrors along the platform. Her would-be pursuers are struggling to keep pace with her as she weaves through the surging crowd. She spots her mark: a tall and rather corpulent man is getting on the same train she has just left. She ducks behind his large frame and re-boards the tram. As a cool, clipped voice tells them to ‘ _mind the gap_ ,’ the doors slide shut. Arya watches through the window as the train pulls away, the two men following her pacing the platform, looking frustrated. They don’t notice her on the train as it pulls away. 

She gets off a stop later and apparates to her intended location. Subterfuge can be fun, but she’s got other things to do than to drive the Ministry of Magic crazy today.

By the time she makes it Diagon Alley, the Leaky Cauldron is bustling with witches and wizards running morning errands. Arya slips between the tables, marveling at how warm and homey the place looks. The smell of fresh bread is heavenly, and she’s almost tempted to stay. But there are people starting to glance curiously at her, and she keeps moving instead. 

She’s not really sure what she expects to find here. She knows she should just go straight to Winterfell to see Sansa, Bran, and Jon — she assumes Rickon is back at school already — but she hasn’t quite figured out what to say to them. An apology would probably be the correct move, but apologizing has never been her forte. With her track record, she might end up getting angry and hexing everyone before she even makes it halfway through.

The shop windows twinkle merrily with fairy lights leftover from the Christmas holidays. A light sprinkling of snow dusts the ground, giving the street a glowing aura. Arya wanders aimlessly down the lane, taking note of which shops had survived the end of the war with the Night King. There is a new one that catches her eye. There are no twinkling lights here, but the windows are clean and inviting. A plain wooden sign hangs overhead, with simple, dark lettering.

**Waters’s Wands**

Arya’s heart flips. Without giving herself time to think, she pushes open the door.

As she crosses the threshold, she feels an almost imperceptible breeze push past her. Most would just think it cross-wind, but Arya knows that it is a Detection charm intended to warn the occupant of a visitor. It calms her a bit to know that such security precautions are in place. 

She can see a doorway to a backroom, and the moment she steps inside, the sounds of work from the back cease. She wonders if he knows she is here, or if he thinks it is just a regular customer. At any rate, no one emerges from the back, and Arya takes a moment to look around the shop. It’s not very big, but the stacks of boxes around her draw the eye upwards, elongating the space. The shop is well-lit and clean.

Arya’s gaze is drawn to the only wall not stacked with merchandise. There are wizarding photographs affixed to it, and a rare smile breaks across her face. Each picture shows a beaming child, proudly holding their new wands in the air. Some look triumphant — they had expected that this great honor would come to them — while others look almost alarmed. Most of the nervous-looking children are wearing muggle clothing; they all bear an expression that suggests they think an elaborate prank is being played upon them. Yet all of them are still waving their wands, jets of sparks issuing out of the ends.

Slow, heavy footsteps sound behind her, and Arya moves back from the photos, her smile falling away.

Gendry stands behind the high wooden counter, arms crossed and expression furious. She knows she should focus on his anger, but some of her more traitorous body parts focus instead on just how good his biceps look stretching out his sweater. Despite having his own wand shop in the heart of Diagon Alley, Gendry is dressed head to toe in muggle clothing; he could teach those ministry flunkies pursuing her this morning how to blend in properly. Gendry is also wearing a magical watch, but it’s charmed to look like a modest muggle one. Arya’s heart pounds at the sight of it. He may be angry with her, but he’s still wearing her gift.

“What do you want, Stark?”

His tone is curt to the point of rudeness, but Arya doesn’t mind. He’s speaking to her, which is more than she had expected.

She had not, however, actually prepared for this conversation, so she just says the first thing that pops into her head.

“Did the Sorting Hat want to put you in another house?”

Gendry’s head rears back, his brow furrowed. He speaks slowly, as if to someone who he fears is not particularly mentally stable. Arya thinks this is not an unreasonable assumption for him to make.

“It did say I’d do alright in Gryffindor.”

“You would’ve been good in Gryffindor,” Arya agrees, nodding absently. She looks around the shop again and sighs. “It told me I’d make a good Hufflepuff.”

Gendry starts looking annoyed again, waiting for her to get to the point. Arya looks down at her shoes.

“It was wrong. I’ve been a bad friend. A bad _person_ , actually. And I’ve been a shite Gryffindor, running away from my problems this whole time.”

Gendry says nothing, but when she meets his eyes again, she can tell that he agrees.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I should’ve said goodbye.”

“You’re not sorry you left, though, are you?” Gendry says darkly.

“No. I couldn’t stay. But I didn’t have to leave like that.”

She takes a steadying breath and throws back her shoulders to face Gendry fully.

“I understand if you don’t want to be my friend. I hurt you, and I am sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me. In fact, I’d understand if you never wanted to see me again.” The tears are back again, and she manages to hold them in, but barely. She speeds up her apology before it’s too late. “I just wanted you to know that you didn’t deserve to be treated that way. You’re a good friend. You’re a good person and I… I just wanted you to know that. I’m sorry, Gendry.”

Gendry says nothing, his arms still crossed over his chest. Arya nods, resigned. She turns and heads out of the shop, the Detection charm breezing past her.

She makes it out of Diagon Alley as quickly as possible before she disapparates to Winterfell. Only then do her tears start to fall.

—

Arya celebrates her twentieth birthday at Stark Manor with her family. Rickon is given special dispensation to leave Hogwarts for the evening — a more common occurrence since the fall of the Night King, as most families value their precious time together — although Rickon is not particularly happy about this. He, like most people, is angry with Arya for her sudden absence. Before he leaves to return to school, she gives him the Beater bat from Osaka, knowing that he has made the Gryffindor team as one of the youngest-ever Beaters.

“You can’t just buy me off,” Rickon protests hotly.

“I’m not trying to,” Arya says. “Be angry with me as long as you like. I deserve it. But you should at least take this and smash the hell out of Slytherin next week.”

Rickon glares at her, but grabs the bat. 

“Fine. We’ll thrash Slytherin. But I’m still cross with you.”

Jon, Bran, and Sansa are, surprisingly, not furious with Arya. Arya supposes this eerily-calm version of Bran doesn’t get very angry at anything anymore, but she is surprised that neither Sansa nor Jon reprimand her for running off without a word after the battle. Arya had assumed that Sansa would at least be angry at her lack of decorum, and asks her about it.

“You were in pain, Arya,” Sansa says gently. “We all were. We just hoped you were finding a way to manage your own suffering without us.”

This had triggered another round of waterworks, the first in front of an audience. Sansa had sat quietly next to her, holding her hand until she stopped crying.

Jon had been the most eager to help. He seemed to be thriving. Without the threat of the Night King looming over his life, he had started seriously dating Ygritte, had joined the Auror Department at the Ministry, and had moved into his own flat with Sam. He still visited Winterfell every weekend to see his family, but he came more often now that Arya was around. He was the one who urged her to sign up for Auror training. She was months behind the program, but so long as she passed the exam in a few week’s time, she could join up. It felt good to put her mind to use learning protocols and procedures, as well as revising her knowledge of potions, transfiguration, and defensive spells. 

She had been tempted to throw herself completely in her work, to lose herself once again to a purpose that would shield her from the realities of her life. It changes when she runs into Shireen and Hot Pie on morning. They are, surprisingly, delighted to see her.

“Arya!” Shireen squeals, throwing her arms around Arya’s neck. “You’re back!”

“Er… yes,” Arya says, completely flummoxed by this reaction.

“Boy, do we have a lot to tell you, Arya!” Hot Pie says excitedly. “Lots of things changing ‘round here these days. Where’ve you been?”

“You don’t have to talk about if you don’t want,” Shireen says quickly. “We understand.”

“You do?”

“Sure!” Hot Pie says, nodding. “Lots of people weren’t quite right after... after that night. Took a bit for everything to get settled. I still wake up so cold some nights, like I’m right back there… and I didn’t fight half as many White Walkers as you did, Arya. Blimey, I don’t blame you for leaving. It was downright miserable here afterwards.”

“But…” Arya says, still bewildered. “I abandoned all of you.”

Shireen shrugs.

“That’s how some people might see it, but it’s not a very kind way of thinking. Everyone reacted differently. And besides, you’re back now, so that means we can all work through this together. You _are_ back now, aren’t you?” Shireen adds with a note of hesitation.

“Yes,” Arya says quickly. “I am back. Just thought you’d be angry with me is all.”

“Nah, who wants to be angry with their friends? Got to keep the ones we’ve still got!” Hot Pie smiles widely and smacks his hands together happily. 

“I’ve got a shift at the Leaky tonight. Come ‘round and say hello! Oh, I s’pose there’ll be plenty of people there, so if you’re not feeling particularly sociable…”

“Thanks,” Arya says. “I’ll try to make it.”

Hot Pie claps her on the shoulder and heads down the street.

“You know,” Shireen says quietly. “You don’t have to go if you’re not ready. It took me ages to go out after… after my face.”

She gestures at her scars with a sad smile.

“You’re going, aren’t you?” Arya asks.

Shireen nods.

“Then I’ll go,” Arya says with confidence. “I’ve missed you and Hot Pie.”

Shireen smiles broadly, pulling Arya in for another hug.

“Oh, wonderful! I’ll see you tonight then!”

Arya spends her day filling out paperwork at the Ministry — skipping most of the Auror program is unheard of, but everyone who saw her fight at the Battle of Hogwarts knows that she is more than competent in her defensive and transfiguration skills. The powers that be are also aware that having Arya Stark in their ranks will look good for them, so they’re eager to have her on board. Arya chafes a bit at the idea of being a figurehead or a recruitment tactic, but she figures she can leverage this to make sure she’s on task forces for things she cares about. Everyone assumes that she’ll ask to take down former White Walkers, but she has her heart set on muggle-wizarding relations instead. She keeps this to herself for the moment; she has to actually pass the examinations before she can get to work.

Before she heads to the Leaky Cauldron, she pops into a quiet restaurant for a curry. The place seems to do almost all of its business via takeaway, so Arya gets a prime table by the window to herself. She pulls out her journal to write as a Bollywood movie loops on the television in the corner.

_Goals for week of January 28th_   
_1) Go to the Leaky Cauldron tonight_   
_2) Make conversation with at least one person who isn’t Shireen or Hot Pie_   
_3) Go on a run (3X)_   
_4) Find a therapist_

The last item has been on her list since she arrived in England, but she’s been scared shitless by the prospect. Still, all the best books about grief have advised her to take this step, and so far most of the advice she’s gotten from the books has been good. Doesn’t make it any less intimidating; it seems much simpler to get angry or to run away than to sit on a couch and talk about her feelings.

When she makes it to the Leaky Cauldron, she can hear the joyous patrons from the street. Inside, the inn is packed with groups of friends sharing tankards of butterbeer and mead. Arya smiles at the smell of warm bread — she should have known Hot Pie was working here from the start — and waves to Shireen.

She squeezes her way over to Shireen’s corner of the bar, Hot Pie already pouring her a drink before she sits down. She glances around. There are a few familiar faces looking at her curiously, but they look away when she catches them. The only one who doesn’t look away is Gendry.

Arya’s heart skips a beat. She should have guessed that he would be here — most of the people she had known at Hogwarts or through the Night’s Watch were — but she had been so preoccupied with work that she hadn’t thought of a plan. She had told him he never had to see her again, but the wizarding world wasn’t that big. They were bound to run into each other at some point.

Gendry looks away first, returning to a lively conversation with other former Hufflepuff Quidditch players. His jaw is grinding furiously.

“What happened there?” Shireen asks, sipping her butterbeer.

“Would it surprise you to know that I fucked everything up?”

“Yes, actually. Especially since he’s looking at you again.”

Arya turns in time to catch Gendry’s blue eyes on her. He glances away quickly this time, looking even more annoyed.

Shireen giggles.

“It’s not funny,” Arya says, head in her hands. “He bloody _hates_ me, and I deserve it.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Shireen says, sobering. “He was just really worried about you. Wanted us to basically mount a world-wide search for you.”

“He did?”

“I think he thought you’d been snatched up or something. White Walkers lashed out for a while after the Night King died, and you’d’ve been their number one target for revenge. I think Gendry couldn’t imagine that you _wanted_ to leave.”

Arya thinks that perhaps this is the lowest she’s felt in years. Shireen could have punched her in the face and it would’ve hurt less.

“But, that’s a Hufflepuff for you,” Shireen continues primly. “Always needing to keep everyone together. Like a sheepdog.”

“That’s not fair,” Arya says hotly. “I left without saying goodbye. He was right — I could’ve been hurt, and no one would’ve known. And besides, he’s got the right to want people to stick close to him. His mum died when he was little and —“

“Whoa, Arya!” Shireen interrupts, holding up her hands. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. I think it was totally understandable. And I helped him look for you, too. We all did. But I think most of us accepted that you didn’t want to be found and that was your right. He didn’t seem to agree. If he’s upset you left without saying goodbye, fine. But if he’s angry at you for trying to get your head right? Well, that’s his problem.”

Hot Pie swings around to top off their butterbeers.

“Sorry I can’t stay to chat more,” Hot Pie pants. “It’s bloody packed tonight — got to make the rounds.”

“Cheers, mate,” Arya toasts, nodding in thanks.

“Enough about _boys_ ,” Shireen says with a smile. “What about you? How’s Auror training? How’s your family?”

Arya spends most of her evening talking to Shireen. Shireen fills her in on the important developments of the past year, both political and social, and Arya finds herself laughing more than once. When she does, she catches Gendry turning his head towards her, only to look away angrily if she meets his gaze.

The night winds to a close, and more and more people leave until there are only a half dozen patrons left. Shireen takes her leave, but Arya has the next morning off, and isn’t tired just yet. She is tempted to catch up with Hot Pie, who is regaling customers with a detailed explanation on the wonders of muggle bread-making, when a large presence appears next to her.

“This seat taken?”

Arya looks up into Gendry’s blazing blue eyes. She swallows.

“No.”

Gendry sits slowly, looking straight ahead and avoiding her gaze.

“I’ve got something for you,” he says stiffly.

Arya blinks at him, surprised. Gendry reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a box with her name on it. He slides it towards her, still looking away.

Arya tentatively grabs the box, removing the lid. She inhales sharply when she sees what is inside.

It is a wand: eight inches of pristine, gleaming oak, carved in a plain style. She knows just by looking at it that it will suit her perfectly.

She shoots a look at Gendry, who takes a deep breath.

“Try it.”

Arya gently lifts the wand, glad that most of the people in the Leaky Cauldron are dozing over their tankards or else enraptured by Hot Pie’s bread tales. No one is looking at her or Gendry.

She waves the wand.

A shower of warm, golden and red sparks fizzles from the end, wrapping Arya and Gendry in a halo of light. It feels incredible. It is not the raw, blazing power of her lightning, but a warmth like embers glowing inside of her. It is not a power that will flash and die, but something that can sustain her, fuel her. It is a magic she had not known to exist before.

She looks at Gendry, absolutely astonished. He finally meets her gaze, and for the first time, his expression softens.

“Dual core,” he explains. “Dragon’s heartstring and thestral tail together.”

“I thought that made a wand less stable.”

“If it’s dual-ended, it does. But combining them together as one single wand seems to bring about a better balance. Picks up the nuances that one core doesn’t.”

“I’ve never heard of a dual-core wand before,” Arya admits.

Gendry flushes and rubs the back of his neck nervously. 

“Er, that’s because I invented it.”

“You did?”

“I started testing it out a while back,” he says, looking down at his hands. “Doesn’t seem to matter much for first wands — y’know, for first years and students. But once you’ve got a particular set of skills, well… it’s sort of like you said the other day. People could be good in multiple houses. No one is just one thing, so why should they have a wand like that?”

“Gendry, this is… this is incredible. I can’t believe… how did you know this one would work?”

“I made it for you.”

He speaks so quietly that she can barely hear him over Hot Pie’s loud jokes nearby. Arya feels her heart in her throat. She desperately wants to kiss Gendry, or at the very least, touch his hand in thanks. She holds herself back, unsure.

“I’m really angry with you, Arya,” Gendry says, and Arya’s heart sinks back down somewhere in the vicinity of her feet. “I thought you were dead or hurt. I didn’t think you’d just _leave_ like that. Not after…”

“Gendry, I know,” Arya sighs. “It was wrong of me.”

“Did it help?” he asks. “Being away? Are you… better now?”

Arya sighs again.

“Not quite,” she admits. “Going to be a long road.”

Gendry nods and rises to his feet.

“Well, if you need help along the way…”

He extends his hand towards her, offering it for her to shake. Arya stares at him, nonplussed.

“I thought you said you were angry with me?”

“Yeah, but you’re still my friend,” Gendry says with a grimace. “If you need help, I’m there.”

Arya pushes Gendry’s hand aside and launches herself towards him in a fierce hug. She worries for a moment that this was not the correct decision, but Gendry gives a little chuckle that makes her insides melt.

“I know this is going to sound like the blind leading the blind,” Arya adds, pulling away. “But if you ever need help either…”

Gendry gives her a weak smile.

“Thanks, ‘Arry. I’ll see you around, yeah?” 

Gendry turns to leave.

“Wait! What about the wand?”

“What about it?”

“You can’t just _give_ this to me. It must’ve taken you ages. Let me pay you for it.”

“It was a gift, Arya.”

“Gendry…”

“Just do me a favor, okay? Don’t ever point that thing at me. You’re already powerful enough without it.”

Gendry turns to leave. Arya stares at her new wand, twirling it in her fingers.

_Progress_.

—

Arya passes her Auror examinations in late March with flying colors. Sansa and Jon throw her a little party, but truthfully, Arya thinks the party should be for her other accomplishments. Auror training is a cakewalk compared to rebuilding the shambles of her personal relationships.

Shireen and Hot Pie had been easy-going on their first encounter with her, so Arya repays their kindness with her first attempts to be open and forthcoming. It is often difficult and awkward, but Hot Pie can fill any silence and Shireen is unfailingly patient. Arya asks her about it once.

“Did you know that after my parents were killed by the Mountain, I punched a hole in every single wall in my house?”

“What? Shireen!”

“Oh yes, I broke several bones in my hand. Didn’t even feel it until after I had done it — the mediwitches at St. Mungo’s said I was lucky they could fix it without permanent damage.”

Arya is stunned. It’s hard to imagine sweet, gentle Shireen so filled with rage.

“I’m not going to pretend that our stories are the same, Arya, but I’ve had my share of really, really stupid decisions. I’m hardly in a position to judge you for yours.”

Arya endeavors to spend as much time as possible with her friends. It always makes her feel better. 

Getting her family to come around take a little more time. Sansa and Jon are happy to have her back, but are a bit wary of her. She does her best — she contacts them at least every other day, and often makes a point to get lunch or a drink after work with one of them. It’s convenient they all work at the Ministry. She tries to do the same with Bran, but he works odd hours at the Department of Mysteries.

“Grief is a strange, intangible thing,” he says cooly to her over one rare lunch. “We must all wind our way through it. I am glad you have returned, Arya. I knew that you would.”

Bran might be very strange to her now, but he still lets her lean in and ruffle his hair before they part ways. Arya appreciates the gesture.

Rickon is the hardest to win over. It doesn’t help that he is at Hogwarts, and she can’t actually see him. She sends a few letters but he returns them unopened. Arya doesn’t give up, however. She goes with Sansa and Jon to view the next Quidditch match — they are given special permission to do so under the guise of extra protection at the school — and Arya whoops delightedly at every successful hit Rickon lands. Gryffindor eke out a narrow victory, and Rickon seems happy enough that he doesn’t mind Arya’s presence. He even lets her hug him goodbye.

“This doesn’t mean everything is better,” Rickon warns. “But thanks for the bat. It’s loads better than my other one.”

“It’s the balance, right?”

“Yeah!” Rickon says excitedly. “And I read up about it — that shop in Osaka is supposed to be the best in Japan at bat-making. They say they’ve got the best herbologists there who give them access to the right trees. And they aren’t even magical trees!”

Rickon’s enthusiasm over Quidditch seems to dull his anger. The next time she writes to him, she keeps it focused on Quidditch, and he writes several pages back.

There is one more big mess to fix, and here she treads most carefully of all. 

Arya and Gendry have a quiet détente between them. They are polite but distant, neither initiating conversation in public. If they are pulled into the same group, or asked by someone else to join in, they do not refuse, but they enter into these interactions cautiously. It takes two months for them to speak to each other directly about something other than the weather — more Quidditch conversation, of course.

“Please, don’t take this the wrong way, Arya,” Shireen says one night after she and Gendry exchange stilted hellos. “But what the hell is wrong with you?”

Arya groans and lowers her head onto the table. Hot Pie laughs behind the bar.

“I’m trying to give him space,” she mumbles into her hands.

“Yes, but it’s been more than three months. And he keeps _looking_ at you and pretending he isn’t.”

“Shireen…” Arya warns.

“Fine, fine!” Shireen says, throwing up her hands. “He’s got plenty of space — I don’t think he wants it, though. I think he’s waiting for you to put yourself out there so he knows where he stands.”

Arya mulls this over for the next few days. She does have to give Shireen credit; she is surprisingly gifted at match-making. Shireen calls this a gift of her ‘Ravenclaw wisdom’ but Hot Pie always cracks that his ‘Hufflepuff intel’ is what gives Shireen the idea to set people up in the first place. They are a rather incorrigible duo, and Arya is once again glad to have returned to her friends.

April 16th falls on a Saturday, and Arya takes particular care with her outfit. Even though she has moved into a small flat on her own in London — Winterfell is still too painful for her to live in permanently — she invites Sansa over to do help her get ready for the evening. Sansa is, thankfully, not too smug about her work, which Arya must admit is excellent. Arya’s hair is in a slightly fancier braid than usual, and there is only a hint of makeup on her face to bring out her eyes. Sansa lets Arya borrow a pair of boots that have a wide enough heel that Arya won’t fall over. Best of all, Sansa does not once mention the fact that Arya has taken special care to dress up for Gendry’s birthday party.

Sansa’s hard work pays off immediately. Arya struts into the Leaky Cauldron, Sansa behind her, and spots Gendry talking with friends. He lifts his head in time to see Arya and she smiles warmly. Gendry blinks, surprised, his mouth dropping open a little. Arya makes her way across the room to greet Shireen, who is already laughing.

“Sansa, _please_ tell me you’re here to be a wingwoman with me tonight.”

Sansa hesitates, looking at Arya. For all the strides they have made at sisterly unity, they still need to be careful not to annoy one another. Arya grins.

“Sansa has already done an admirable job, I would say,” she says, sliding onto a bar stool. “Thanks, Sansa.”

“Any time,” Sansa says brightly. “Hot Pie, could I get a lemon drop please? It’s a muggle drink, I don’t know if —“

“Coming right up!” Hot Pie yelps. He fumbles a glass and Arya has to wave her hand quickly to magically right it before it hits the ground. Hot Pie still gets a little flustered around Sansa. This might have bothered Arya once, but she doesn’t mind any more if people think Sansa is pretty. Arya has already caught one person’s attention this evening, and that’s all she needs.

“Wow, Shireen,” Sansa whispers over her drink a few minutes later. “You weren’t kidding.”

“What are you talking about?” Arya demands.

“Honestly, now I’m second-guessing all those recon missions Gendry was sent on. He is not very subtle about watching you.”

Arya turns her head to find that, indeed, Gendry is looking at her with a curious expression on his face. She smiles at him, and he looks away, his cheeks slightly pink.

“Hah!” Sansa laughs, delighted. “This is going to be so _easy_. Come on, Shireen. Let’s go distract everyone else.”

Shireen waggles her eyebrows suggestively at Arya before following Sansa. Half of the men in the room turn their heads to follow as Sansa calls out, “Anyone interested in a game?”

In Hot Pie’s many efforts to revitalize the Leaky Cauldron, he had convinced the owners to add several muggle pub amenities, including a billiards room. Most of the crowd cheerfully follows Sansa and Shireen, but Gendry breaks off from his friends and moves towards the bar.

Hot Pie materializes in front of them, plonking a large mug in front of Gendry.

“On the house!”

“Cheers, Hot Pie.”

Hot Pie grins and bustles over to the billiards room, holding a tray of butterbeers.

“Fancy a round of darts?” Arya asks. She’s noticed Gendry plays every so often with his friends, and had figured this would be a good way to have a private moment with him.

“Sure.”

Gendry was hardly the most verbose of her friends under the best of circumstances, so if she wanted to talk to him, she was going to have to work for it.

“Full disclosure,” Arya says, picking up a handful of darts. “I have no idea what the rules are.”

Gendry gives her a rare, wide smile that makes her pulse race. 

He explains the rules, although Arya is only half listening. She’s paying much more attention to the expression on Gendry’s face as he launches a dart towards the target. He extends a hand for her to try. She misses spectacularly but is rewarded with the sound of Gendry’s laugh. 

“Best two out of three?” she ventures.

“You’re on, Stark.”

It feels almost like their old Quidditch matches, complete with a lot of trash talk. Arya has no skill to back up any of her challenges, but Gendry seems amused by the return of her feisty nature. It’s about as close to flirting as Arya ever gets, so she keeps doing it. 

Even though Gendry is supposedly the man of honor for the evening, most of the guests are packed into the billiards room. Gendry does not seem to mind the lack of attention.

“Party wasn’t my idea,” he admits. “But people tip Hot Pie more if there’s a party going on, so I thought he might as well make a few extra knuts, right?”

Arya smiles. _Hufflepuffs_.

“So how’s the wand business these days?” Arya asks, trying to aim her next dart carefully. It hits the board, but it’s still nowhere close to the bullseye.

“Not too busy at the moment. I’m waiting on a shipment of unicorn hair from France. It’s taking ages with all the extra security on transport of magical vessels these days.”

“Thanks again for my wand,” she says earnestly. “It’s really good. Better than wandless magic, even.”

“That’s high praise coming from you.” 

His dart flies cleanly into the bullseye with a thud. Arya steps up for her turn.

“I thought you told me it took years to become a proper wandsmith,” she ventures. “Seems like you’re doing great already.”

She’s distracted from her throw by the light blush across Gendry’s face. She’s even further from the target than usual.

“It does take years,” Gendry admits. “The only reason yours is so good is I, er… spent a long time on it. A really long time. But most of my wands aren’t nearly so good,” he adds quickly, changing the subject. “I’ve got a program where first year students looking for new wands get them for cheap and they can upgrade once they reach fifth year — y’know, once they have a better sense of what type of magic suits them. Same with adults, actually. Lots of people lost their wands during the war, so they can make do with a mediocre one while I build up my skills a bit. There are other wand-makers, of course, but you have to travel across the continent to find them, and it isn’t cheap. This way, everyone gets a wand at a decent price, and I build up some customers and a sense of what works best.”

Arya feels a rush of affection for Gendry, remembering the grinning photos of his customers on his wall. She also feels a rather more intimate attraction to him; seeing Gendry so focused and motivated is extremely enticing.

“That sounds like a great strategy, Gendry,” she says. 

Gendry shrugs uncomfortably. He tosses the dart — another bullseye — and turns to look at her.

“I heard you passed the Auror exams. Congratulations.”

“Cheers,” she says, sipping her butterbeer before stepping up for her turn.

“I suppose it was pretty easy for you,” Gendry adds.

“All the practical exam stuff was,” she agrees. Her shot goes a bit better — her aim is improving with practice. “But I had to study for ages for the written part. I’m not used to following a playbook.”

“I’ll bet,” Gendry says cooly, taking a sip of his own drink. “You’ll be taking down the last of the White Walkers, then?”

She takes a deep breath. This is her chance to prove she’s on a better path. She has to open up, even though the prospect seems terrifying.

“No, actually. At least, I’m going to ask not to be put on that squad.”

“Why not?” Gendry pauses before his throw, looking at her with a puzzled expression. “Thought you’d want revenge.”

“Me too,” she admits. “But being an Auror is about getting justice. If I were facing White Walkers… well, I’d be really tempted to take matters into my own hands.”

“So what _do_ you want to do?”

“More of what I’d been trying to do when I was away,” Arya says, picking absently at a coaster. She doesn’t quite meet Gendry’s eyes. Talking about her past is hard enough without the added difficulty of direct eye contact. 

“I lived in Belarus for a while,” she explains. “I was trying to hunt down human traffickers. Lots of Dark wizards have figured out ways into muggle organized crime, which makes it hard for magical or muggle authorities to find them, since neither side really knows what to look for. You’ve got to get a bit… creative.”

“And that’s what you did? Catch Dark wizards hurting muggles?”

“Not directly. I tracked them, but I didn’t have the authority to arrest anyone. I just tipped off the police, or the Aurors, or both.”

“I figured you were doing something noble,” Gendry says with a dark chuckle. “Lots of people said you were probably just relaxing on a beach somewhere.”

“I tried to for the last few weeks I was away,” she admits. “Not really my scene.”

“Where did you go?”

“Thailand for a while, then Australia. Thought the heat didn’t suit me so I went up to Japan for two weeks. It wasn’t until I got to America that I finally admitted I was just trying to avoid my problems. Once realized I was just on the run, I decided to come back.”

“Running away didn’t work then, did it?”

“Well, it’s hard to run from my problems when the problem _is_ me,” she says with a smirk.

Gendry’s face softens. 

“I’m working on it,” Arya continues with a shrug.

“That’s brave of you.”

Arya snorts and throws her dart. Another miss.

“I mean it, Arya. Must be hard to face everything you’ve been through. I was angry after you left, but… I get it no. Really, I do. Been trying to find a way to talk to you about it, actually.”

Arya hides a smirk, thinking of Gendry’s not-so-subtle glances over the past few weeks.

“Anyway,” Gendry continues quickly. “It’s good you’re back. Now that the weather is getting better, maybe we could go play Quidditch sometime.”

Gendry’s tone is casual, but the back of his neck flushes red. Arya’s heart flutters with hope.

“That would be great.”

“Good, because you’re pitiful at darts.”

Arya gives Gendry a shove, and he laughs. It draws the attention of his friends in the billiards room, who call for him to join them.

“Before you go,” Arya says quickly, diving to grab her bag off the floor. Sansa had chastised her for bringing a large, unfashionable tote to a party, but Arya had needed the space. She grabs the wrapped gift inside and hands it to Gendry.

“‘Arry, you didn’t have to…”

“But I did,” she says in a cheerful tone. “And it would be bad manners to reject it, so you’re stuck with it.”

Gendry rolls his eyes and bumps against her arm playfully. Arya walks with him towards the rest of the party, feeling lighter than she has in years. 

Sansa gives her a meaningful look across the room. Arya smiles, content.

—

It’s a gloomy spring morning in London, but Arya doesn’t mind. She’s got nothing to do on this lazy Sunday but curl up in her favorite chair and read a good book. She is occasionally distracted from her novel by memories of Gendry’s smile the night before, but this is a welcome change of pace.

It is barely midmorning when she is startled by the presence of a Patronus. It is common for members of the Night’s Watch to send messages this way, although they still make Arya a little nervous. Every time Shireen sends her delicate fawn to ask Arya to meet for drinks at the Leaky Cauldron, she half-expects it to relay some terrible news about a White Walker attack.

Even more surprising than the appearance of the Patronus is that it is _not_ Shireen’s fawn. A silvery bull, muscled and proud, materializes before her.

_“Are you in? Need to talk to you.”_

Gendry’s disembodied voice is hard to interpret. He seems anxious about something, although the bull Patronus portrays nothing but confidence. Arya isn’t sure what to make of it, but she sends her reply, and the bull vanishes.

Five minutes later, a knock comes at her door. Arya swings it open, not bothering to pretend like she hasn’t been pacing behind it the entire time.

Gendry is dressed in his usual muggle clothing, although this time he’s dressed for a run rather than a day at work. There’s a line of sweat around his collar and he’s panting a bit. Arya steps back from the door, gesturing him inside the small flat.

“Getting some exercise?” she asks, unsure what this is all about.

“What? Oh, yeah. I was just thinking and…”

He trails off, staring at her. Now Arya really _is_ starting to worry there’s been some sort of attack.

“Gendry, what’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“Did you buy that bat for me in Japan?”

Arya rears her head back, surprised.

“Oh, your birthday present? Yes, I got it in Osaka.”

“ _Before_ you decided to come back.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you…?”

“Because I missed you.”

Gendry steps towards her, his face determined. Before he can speak, Arya pushes up onto the tips of her toes to kiss him.

Gendry responds immediately, crushing his lips to hers. Arya can smell his sweat and it makes her heart pound harder. Without hesitation she throws her arms around his neck to pull him close. Gendry continues to kiss her, hands roaming all over the rest of her body. After a long moment, he pulls back with a gasp.

“This is okay, right?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Shut up.”

This time, Arya grabs Gendry’s shoulders and leverages herself upwards, wrapping her legs around his waist. He looks momentarily surprised, but then beams up at her, delighted. Arya presses another bruising kiss to Gendry’s lips, thrilled that she’s small enough for him to carry her. With their lips still locked together, Gendry stumbles around the flat, Arya swaying a bit over him.

“Bedroom’s behind me,” she mumbles against his lips.

She expects Gendry to pause and ask her if she’s sure about this, but he just keeps kissing her, clumsily making his way into the bedroom. When she feels him bump against the bed, she pulls away to rip off her shirt. Gendry again wastes no time, lifting her a little higher so her chest is at his eye level. She holds up a palm to wandlessly soundproof the flat while Gendry’s lips tease her breasts. The second she’s finished with her spell, she lets out a loud moan, Gendry laughing against her skin.

Arya wriggles to free herself from Gendry’s grasp, and he sets her down on the bed. They both make quick work of their clothing. Arya pauses for a moment as Gendry moves down to join her.

“If you’re still cross with me…”

“I’m not,” Gendry says quickly.

“Are you just saying that because I’m naked?”

Gendry snorts.

“No,” he laughs. “I just decided that it would be stupid to stay cross with you.”

“You have every right to be angry about what I did, Gendry.”

“Yeah, but you apologized. And besides, I missed you.”

Gendry gazes at her, his blue eyes soft in the dim bedroom light. He strokes a finger down her side and she tries not the shiver.

“Still…”

“Are you cross with me?” Gendry asks.

“What? Why would I be?”

Gendry shrugs.

“I haven’t exactly been very friendly. You were going through a lot and I wasn’t very supportive about it.”

“I’m fine.”

Gendry brow furrows in skepticism.

“Okay, I’m working on it. But I was never angry at you, Gendry. I just thought I wasn’t worth it, y’know? You could’ve been with someone that was normal and made you happy.”

“You make me happy, Arya.”

Arya raises herself up on her elbows to kiss him gently. One kiss leads to another, and soon they are pressed up against each other, touching in a way that is intimate beyond anything Arya has ever felt before.

“You make me happy, too, Gendry,” she whispers.

They let their bodies carry out the rest of the conversation. Hands roam up and down, caressing, squeezing, and tugging. Arya feels like she is filled with sparks, the warm golden and red ones that came from the wand Gendry gave her the first time she held it. She feels beautiful and powerful under his gaze, his eyes wide with awe as she moves over him. She can’t imagine ever getting used to this feeling, like she is finally herself, free and happy.

Arya had certainly fantasized about reuniting with Gendry, but this is not quite how she had imagined it. For one thing, she had assumed that sex was always a serious endeavor — it certainly had been the night before the Battle of Hogwarts — but after Gendry brings her to her peak, she finds herself giggling against his chest. It’s not a sound she was even aware she could make, and Gendry seems highly amused by it.

“You alright there?” he teases.

“Yes,” she says through her laughter. “Just really happy.”

Gendry’s eyes blaze, and he flips her over, eager to keep thrusting into her. Arya’s laughter turns to moans; he won’t have to work hard to bring her to another climax.

It turns out sex is quite fun. Arya supposes this is common knowledge to most people, but she’s not really used to having fun. She’s not used to any of this, really: passion, desire, joy. For years, her only goals were to survive and to fight. Here with Gendry, it falls away. She is safe. She does not need to struggle or fight. She can give in and allow herself to be cared for.

Gendry certainly takes this role seriously. Arya had vaguely been aware that some women could climax more than once, but now she wonders if there’s some sort of record that Gendry is determined to beat. Not that Arya minds — she has never felt so good in her entire life. As she comes down from yet another peak, she notices the intensity of Gendry’s expression, a mix of hunger and pride.

“Mmm,” Arya hums, feeling boneless and sleepy. “Let me know if there’s something I should be doing for you.”

“You are,” Gendry rasps. “I like watching you come. Fuck, Arya, I’m going to—”

He gives a few more thrusts, eyes going unfocused. Arya grins up at him, and gives a hum of pleasure. Gendry stills, panting heavily. Arya pulls him into her arms, his weight pressed down on her.

“I’m going to crush you,” Gendry protests weakly.

“I kind of like it,” she admits. Something about the weight of him, the musk of his scent, makes her feel comforted.

They lie tangled and sweaty for a moment before Arya admits that Gendry _is_ a bit heavy for her, and they roll apart. They stare at each other, neither of them moving.

“D’you want to…” Gendry trails off, unsure.

“Stay in bed all day with you?” Arya finishes. “Yes.”

She’s sure that wasn’t what Gendry was going to ask, but he seems happy with her response anyway. He reaches out an arm to pull her close, her cheek pressed against his chest. She can hear the thud of his heart, and she closes her eyes.

She is finally back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I've got a tiny epilogue, too, but I hope you've enjoyed this story :)


	10. Epilogue

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters is jammed with excited students and flustered parents. It is the usual chaos of September first: misplaced trunks, shouted greetings and goodbyes, astounded muggle-born students tripping over themselves. It is reassuring that after all these years, nothing has changed from Arya’s memory.

What remains of the Stark family is gathered at the far end of the platform, away from prying eyes. Rickon, already dressed with his Gryffindor Quidditch Captain’s badge pinned to his school robes, fidgets as Sansa fusses over his hair.

“It’s fine, Sansa,” he protests. He’s tall enough now that Sansa has difficulty reaching up to flatten his unruly curls.

“I wish you’d just let me trim it,” she responds. “Honestly, Rickon, how will your team take you seriously when you can hardly see out from under your fringe?”

“He’ll let his Beater bat do the talking,” Arya says. “It’s alright, Sansa.”

Sansa rolls her eyes, but she stops trying to attack Rickon’s hair. Rickon shoots Arya a grateful look.

“Thanks again for all the practice this summer, Gendry,” Rickon adds.

Behind Arya, she can sense Gendry nod. Although Arya and Gendry share a small flat in London, they had Apparated to Winterfell most weekends when Arya wasn’t on a case over the summer. Even when she was on a case, Gendry had occasionally gone up by himself. Rickon and Gendry were quite the duo — they could talk Quidditch for hours — and they had indeed spent many evenings practicing together over the summer. Gendry had joked that he was going to be stripped of his Hufflepuff association for helping the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain train, but he had clearly enjoyed his time with Rickon.

“He plays like you,” Gendry had admitted to Arya. “Just on the edge of reckless. It’s fun.”

Arya looks around at her family: Rickon, Sansa, and Gendry stand closest to her, while Bran in his wheelchair hover close by. Jon is trying to hide himself behind a pillar to avoid the stares of the other witches and wizards on the platform, but he is beaming at Rickon happily. Jon’s attempts to keep hidden are hampered by the presence of Ygritte by his side, whose bright red hair and bulging pregnant belly are much harder to ignore. Everyone is trying to give Rickon some last bits of wisdom about Quidditch and N.E.W.Ts all at once. Rickon tries to look annoyed at the attention, but Arya can tell that he is pleased. 

She wishes more than anything that her parents were here. They would be so proud of Rickon, their youngest, wildest son going off for his final year at Hogwarts. Robb would have been thrilled, too: another Stark Quidditch Captain following in his footsteps.

The train lets out a wailing whistle as steam billows from the engine. Gendry and Jon grab Rickon’s trunk to load it onto the train while Ygritte pulls Rickon into a hug. Arya smirks at the flush on Rickon’s neck; his adoration of his sister-in-law was sealed the moment he saw her block a goal in the backyard Quidditch pitch, followed by a string of profanities taunting Jon that he could certainly throw better than _that_. Sansa had been scandalized, but Rickon had fallen head over heels. He had mostly gotten over his crush since Jon and Ygritte’s wedding two years prior, but every now and then he would turn pink at her attentions. Arya, who has been trying her best to be an emotionally healthy adult for the past five years, refrains from teasing her little brother about this.

Once everyone has said goodbye to Rickon at least twice, the train starts to pull away, and Rickon races to hop on. Arya and her family wave enthusiastically at the joyous, shouting students. Gendry wraps an arm around Arya’s shoulders as Rickon’s smiling face disappears into the mist.

All is well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
